


Overactive Imagination

by herecomesaspecialboy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, BDSM, Ballroom Dancing, Battle, Begging, Bloodplay, Bondage, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death (referenced), Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Fluff and Smut, Interrogation, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Riding, Romantic Comedy, Spying, Surveillance, They're Having Fun, childhood flashbacks, fantasies, ferdie loves horses, ferdie loves the opera, gothic romantic comedy, it's fine though, like a little bit, nothing happens until they're both 18, oblivious idiots, sex ed for kinky nobles was not in Manuela's job description, she's doing her best, slow burn for them since they've known each other for so long but fast burn for us, tease and denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herecomesaspecialboy/pseuds/herecomesaspecialboy
Summary: Ferdinand Von Aegir did not spend too much time at the opera or reading novels as a child. If his thoughts now ever wander to being tied up by a strikingly handsome adversary (which they do not), it is only because he needs to be prepared with a good strategy, should that ever come to pass. Also, avoiding Hubert is much more difficult at Garreg Mach than it had been in Enbarr.Hubert prides himself on his powers of intimidation and detection, and Ferdinand is obviously hiding something. It is Hubert's duty to his future Emperor to put a stop to it.OR: Ferdinand thinks they're in a gothic novel and Hubert thinks they're in a spy thriller. They're both wrong. It's a romantic comedy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> the prologue is set in 1170 but the rest of the fic is in 1180 during the events of White Clouds. with some memories from growing up together sprinkled in here and there.
> 
> big thanks to pleasant_boy for helping me figure this fic out and also to my bros in the discord server, to whom this fic is dedicated.

1170

Manuela Casagranda, surely the most beautiful woman to ever live, is chained to the wall of the wicked baron’s dungeon. Her voice and form are melancholy and defeated. Ferdinand sits alone in the prime minister’s box. He kicks his feet without realizing it because he loves this part coming up. The aria swells to a crescendo, and her sadness turns to a firm resolve. The princess has been through so much, but the task laid out in front of her is more terrible than any she has faced in her adventures thus far. She lures a guard to her, chest heaving, begging for water. Yes! Ferdinand bounces in his seat in anticipation. Quick as a viper, the princess disarms the guard and runs him through with his own sword. After a bit of struggling with his keys, she is freed. The beautiful gown she wore to the ball in Act One has been reduced to tatters, but as she stands above the body of the fallen guard, her voice rising to heaven and vowing that she will return to her castle, to her people, Ferdinand is sure she has never been so beautiful.

It is not the best opera Mittelfrank has ever put on, nor is it Manuela’s best performance, but eight year old Ferdinand von Aegir watches and listens with the devoted attention of a worshipper rather than a critic. He attends every performance, as he has done for years without more than a few cross words from his father. Ferdinand’s father, the prime minister, is too busy with matters of state to take enough interest in what Ferdinand does with his evenings to actually stop him, after all. So Ferdinand and his valet mount the steps of the opera house almost nightly, Ferdinand with his chest puffed out proudly. He chats with fellow nobles, who are (mostly) terribly impressed by the little future duke’s skills of etiquette and conversation.

When the final performance of the season comes around, an ache fills Ferdinand’s heart. He consoles himself that at least all of the singers will give their all to see the season close well. However, something surprising catches his eye when he makes his usual way up to his box: strands of light brown hair falling over a cape of red, violet eyes framed by an intelligent face.

Pleasantries are exchanged, and though he and Edelgard do not know each other well, Ferdinand is invited to join her and her parents in the imperial box. “Now it is a proper birthday party, with guests and everything, El,” Ferdinand overhears the emperor’s consort whisper to her daughter. He is seated behind the imperial family, but even set back in a lesser seat, the view is slightly better than what he is used to.

The lights dim and the opera starts, and ah, there she is. Manuela, the beautiful princess making her way to the ball. But as the baron onstage creeps through the shadows, eyeing the innocent princess twirling from handsome noble to handsome noble, singing his plot to abduct her, Ferdinand feels a chill. Not the normal chill that he is long accustomed to feeling down his spine every time the villainous baritone lurks and looms onstage, but something closer, more immediate.

A shadow moves in the opera box, and Ferdinand bites his lip. He should be afraid, but he is not. The first thing he can think of, a flight of fancy to be sure, is that a real evil baron or perhaps a dark mage has come to whisk him away for an adventure of his own. Ferdinand cannot tell if the dim lamplight really does glint off of black hair, or if the long shadows moving ominously are in his imagination, but it distracts him for the entire first half of the opera. When the lights return for intermission, the frightening shadow transforms into a tall, grim boy dressed all in black. He approaches Edelgard with a deep bow, ignoring Ferdinand entirely. Edelgard seems pleased to see him, so all is well. Ferdinand isn’t disappointed in the slightest. What an absurd response that would be! Ferdinand is nothing but pleased, of course, that no villains lurk in the darkness of the opera house, but all the same…

That night, restless in a way he has never felt before, Ferdinand dreams of something nameless, enticing and horrible waiting for him in the inky black of an endless night.

The years pass and he grows up. As he works towards an understanding of the political mire that he will someday inherit, Ferdinand does his level best not to make any connection between the sharp, hard-eyed tormenter in his increasingly fervent dreams and the ghoulish boy who haunts the shadows of Enbarr.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> taking over stable duty? what could possibly go wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the actual start of the story! it's the first week of red wolf moon, so the battle of the eagle and lion is done and remire village has yet to come.

1180

In eighteen years of life, Ferdinand von Aegir has determined that the world’s greatest pleasures are: 

  1. watching the sunrise on horseback
  2. a beautiful voice singing beautiful poetry set to beautiful music on a beautiful stage telling a beautiful story, 
  3. taking a well-earned break with a perfectly brewed cup of tea, 
  4. overcoming an obstacle after great perseverance, 
  5. doing one’s duty as a noble with elegance and tact, and
  6. a hot bath on a cold day. 

The list is a work in progress, but he is delighted to be able to accomplish items 1 and 3 in as quick succession as he manages on the bright Saturday morning in question. Ferdinand butters his toast and hums to himself, nodding politely to his fellow students as they sleepily file into the dining hall for breakfast. It is not quite cold enough yet for the bath he will take later to qualify as number 6, but he looks forward to it all the same.

“Ferdinand,” Linhardt slumps into the seat next to him with a delicate pastry in hand. “Can you take over stable duty today? You like horses, right?” Before Ferdinand can reprimand him for shirking his responsibilities as a noble, Linhardt rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not ‘shirking my responsibilities as a noble’, Caspar is in the infirmary after sparring with Felix yesterday.”

“Oh!” Of course Ferdinand would lend his considerable expertise with horses to stable duty in Caspar’s stead. “Of course I will lend my consid—”

“Great,” Linhardt interrupts him, yawning rudely. “I’m very tired of this conversation now. I need to be able to focus completely on this danish.” 

As used to Linhardt’s bluntness as Ferdinand is, it stings all the same. “Very well!” Ferdinand smiles, finishing his toast. He sips his tea in what he hopes is a companionable silence, sure that he will win Linhardt over someday. If it has gone a bit tepid, well, Linhardt does not ever need to know.

* * *

On Hubert’s short walk to the stables from his room, he ruins the day of no less than five different people. He doesn't even mean to do it, he is simply in that bad of a mood. Stable duty is a waste of his time at such a pivotal moment in his plans with Lady Edelgard as this. But some things can’t be helped. Better he should do it than Edelgard, who was originally scheduled for it. Instead, she will sit in the infirmary and speak to Caspar, hopefully continuing to forge some sort of friendship with him. Hubert will brush as many horses as necessary if it means that Edelgard can forge the path to a Fódlan free of corruption and rot. Even if it is by himself while Linhardt sleeps nearby.

Linhardt is predictably late, leaving Hubert waiting with his arms crossed while Ferdinand, probably just finishing his morning ride, fusses and fiddles around in one of the stalls. It is both loud and distracting. 

The very first times they met, Hubert didn’t notice the little von Aegir. He exuded no danger, no expertise, nothing at all except the tedious simplicity of a normal child, only more orange. He was not worth taking notice of.

And then Lady Edelgard was taken away, and Hubert, at eleven years old, had to reckon with the fact that he had already failed in his primary mission in life. Those years were not easy. The disgrace of puberty coming so close on the heels of the devastation of losing Edelgard, having to solidify a new network of spies and maintain his work in the shadows while suddenly gangly and awkward, tripping over too-long limbs… It’s not a period of time Hubert looks on with any fondness.

And there was Ferdinand von Aegir. Ferdinand didn’t intrigue Hubert or infuriate him, but he did finally catch Hubert’s attention. Superficial, stupid, shiny Ferdinand—a little dandy marching around the palace with an arrogance that was far too big for his tiny frame. Ferdinand’s voice in the distance was an insect’s buzz, his presence a loose thread tickling Hubert’s neck. The boy posed no threat to Hubert, or to Edelgard’s safe return, but he irritated Hubert all the same.

That irritation remains with Hubert to this day, and he bristles in spite of himself at Ferdinand’s cheerful humming. “Hubert!” Hell. Hubert curses himself for waiting in plain sight. “I was not expecting to see you here this morning.”

“Hello Ferdinand,” Hubert says, enjoying the way Ferdinand flinches at the sound of his own name on Hubert’s lips. “Caspar and Lady Edelgard are in the infirmary, so I am here for stable duty.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand looks discouraged, pouting in a way that Hubert is sick of recognizing. “Well, we had better get started then.”

“I thought Linhardt—”

Ferdinand actually looks up into Hubert’s eyes and gives him a wry smile. “You thought Linhardt had volunteered to do physical labor on a Saturday morning?” He chuckles. It would be very charming, probably very _ debonair _ if he was doing it to anyone else. But Hubert does not like to be laughed at, and scowls horribly in response.

Only Lady Edelgard (and maybe the Professor) can stand that scowl without deflating dramatically, but Ferdinand just looks down, cheeks suddenly pink. Odd.

Hubert moves to help Ferdinand walk the first horse they are meant to brush out of the stall, but that awful humming stops him. Just because Ferdinand hadn’t been suspicious when they were children doesn’t mean he isn’t up to something now. Hubert decides to test him, crossing his arms and watching with the most terrifying posture he can conjure.

* * *

You would be hard pressed to find a better horseman at Garreg Mach than Ferdinand, who, in addition to his excellent seat, had learned to clean a stall and groom a horse before he could string together a full sentence. Somehow, that lifetime of experience goes out the window with the tall, cold presence of Hubert von Vestra at Ferdinand’s back.

The curry comb falls from Ferdinand’s hand as if to punctuate his train of thought. Ferdinand turns and Hubert makes no move to help him. The man simply stands there, a hard little smile on his face. It is only when Ferdinand bends to retrieve the comb that Hubert approaches him.

“Do you need any… assistance?” Hubert looms over him, voice dripping with ire.

Refusing to maintain such an unseemly position, Ferdinand stands up with a huff. “No!” He speaks too loudly, startling the horse. Hubert smirks in response, cruel and wide. 

Ferdinand steels himself and focuses on his task. Soon, the horse, a beautiful chestnut bred for hard rides and harder battles, settles. Ferdinand, also arguably a beautiful chestnut bred for hard rides and harder battles, settles as well. It lasts only as long as Ferdinand has horse to comb that is far enough away from the unhelpful Hubert to be comfortable.

It is no secret that Hubert truly enjoys frightening other people. It makes a certain amount of sense, strategically speaking, even to Ferdinand, for von Vestra to be intimidating. But the way Hubert deliberately cuts as ghastly a figure as he can wherever he goes just to revel in the fear he inspires? Ferdinand finds it both unnecessary and a bit obscene.

The thing is, the more Hubert glowers or looms or threatens, the more Ferdinand’s heart races with something that is definitely not fear. It does not seem to matter that Ferdinand does not even like ruthless, dishonest, and thoroughly ignoble Hubert, or that his position of influence makes Ferdinand legitimately concerned for the future of the Empire. Everything from Hubert’s sharp features to his horrible laugh to the way he stands to the curtain of black hair he hides behind fills Ferdinand with unwanted thoughts, hot and dark.

“If you are not going to do anything, at least move so I can continue my task.” Ferdinand tries to speak normally, looking up into Hubert’s visible eye with a level of defiance he hopes is appropriate. Appropriate or no, speaking even a little bit of his adversarial intent is enough to send a thrill through his body, and he feels his face heat. 

Ferdinand blames it on childhood fancies that he had simply never outgrown. Instead, they grew with him, innocent fantasies of adventure and conquest maturing as he did. It is a small price to pay for maintaining his idealism, Ferdinand reassures himself in moments of doubt, usually while dumping cold water on his head after following an idle thought too far down a dangerous path. 

After staring each other down, Ferdinand blushing more and more the longer he refuses to look away, Hubert relents, arching an eyebrow and backing away. “You are welcome to start on one of the other horses, you know,” Ferdinand suggests, resolutely ignoring the quaver in his own voice. Hubert merely crosses his arms, opting to glare thousands of daggers in Ferdinand’s direction rather than do any work himself.

Ferdinand tries to keep his mind on attacking the dirt on the mare’s right side. Who with a heroic, romantic heart does not long to clash with worthy adversaries? Ferdinand thinks to himself indignantly. Is it so wrong to feel excitement at the prospect of a competitive battle between two foes? If it is so very odd to imagine a dashing hero struggling at the mercy of a glamorous, terrifying villain, then why is it in so many stories and operas?

He is so busy reminding himself that his bravery and fundamental nobility are the real reasons that he reacts so strongly to Hubert’s ghoulish behavior that he does not notice he is working circles in the same area of hair over and over and over again until the horse flicks her tail and whinnies in annoyance.

Ferdinand pats her apologetically and bows without thinking. “I am terribly sorry,” he says, and reaches for his other comb to work on her tail. 

Hubert snorts out a laugh, clearly at Ferdinand’s expense. Ferdinand does not dignify it with a response, nor does he turn to look. If Hubert just acted normally, Ferdinand continued silently in his ongoing frustrated inner monologue, this would not be a problem. Still, he cannot stop himself from imagining the hungry half smile Hubert is probably giving him and… 

A torrent of want shudders through his body, leaving him gripping both combs too hard and grasping for purchase in his own mind lest he be swept away by that thing his tutors had always called “an excitable nature.” That is when Ferdinand remembers items 4 and 5 on his list. What is this if not an opportunity to do his duty as a noble (filling in for an injured comrade) with elegance and tact in spite of an obstacle (Hubert) by way of incredible perseverance? 

Granted, being captured and bound, undergoing Hubert’s rigorous interrogation, and then making a daring escape, just to return and defeat him in battle would be a considerably more exciting victory than successfully grooming and feeding three horses while hiding an erection from an angry spy who refuses to help him. But he is Ferdinand von Aegir, and he does not balk at a challenge.

* * *

Hubert sweeps his room for missing or moved items, poison needles, little traps, and anything else suspicious. He finds nothing and settles in at his desk, opening his leatherbound journal. He writes, in a modified version of a 1000 year old cypher:

_ Investigation of Ferdinand von Aegir _

_ In spite of my initial resistance, I am very pleased that I was tasked with stable duty today. Von Aegir acted suspiciously for the full four hours we spent together. When provoked, his reactions were very strange. Some consistent with a typical defensive anger response, some not. If he has somehow caught wind of our plans and is moving against us, he could ruin everything. My full investigation launches tomorrow. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm planning on doing a weekly update schedule but the prologue wasn't really a whole chapter, so I'm doing this now. wooooo!
> 
> big thanks to wikihow how to groom a horse for the heavy lifting it did in this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert commences his investigation into Ferdinand. Ferdinand goes to poetry class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give you the gift of a horny beautiful dumbass. please see end notes for content warnings! this is porn now.

Over the second week of the Red Wolf Moon in the year 1180, the following notes are compiled in the journal of Hubert von Vestra. Some in neat ink, some in hasty pencil, but all in Hubert’s personal cypher that only he knows:

_ 11/7 _

_ Morning: Ferdinand up before dawn to ride. I followed at a safe distance. He met no one. Stopped at the top of a hill facing east for several minutes (looking for signals?), returned to Garreg Mach. _

_ Purchased tea from a merchant on way inside. _

_ Breakfast: two fried eggs, toast, tea. _

_ Late morning: wakes up Linhardt in library, suggests he go to bed. Sits down to read. Silence blessed release from his infernal humming. _

_ Spoke too soon. Hums when he thinks too. _

_ Has begun to take notes while he reads. Book is _ ** _not_ ** _ something we have been assigned. _

_ Book is _ _ Forgotten Armor Designs in Fódlan’s History _ _ . _

_ Walks to cathedral. Must not have much to say to goddess. Silent prayer is quick. _

_ Stops on bridge back to look at view. Spends more time staring and sighing at mountains than he did praying. Looking for signals? _

_ Too much fog to see anything where he was looking. (Magic signals?) _

_ Noon: Lunch with Professor and Dorothea. She doesn’t like him. (Useful?) _

_ Early Afternoon: Lance practice in training grounds w/ Shamir. (of Dagda? Potential ally in treason against Edelgard?) _

_ They spar. Ferdinand gets no hits. Bleeding but still smiling. _

_ Late Afternoon: Sauna alone. Can’t follow w/o being seen. Searched his room (prelim), found nothing of note. Will return when I have more time. _

_ Evening: Finally leaves sauna w/ Lorenz. Hair still damp. They talk about tea. _

_ Dining hall. Ferdinand and Lorenz have pheasant, compliment each other incessantly. _

_ Night: Ferdinand and Lorenz go back to Ferdinand’s room. Conspiracy or romance? Both? No, talking about tea again. While drinking tea. (Could still be conspiracy.) _

_ Lorenz is leaving. _

_ They have been saying goodbye for ten minutes. _

_ Conspiracy unlikely but possible. _

_ Room dark and quiet. He is asleep. _

** _Conclusions: Unclear if Ferdinand is plotting against Edelgard. Unclear if plot from someone so vapid would even be a threat._ **

_ 11/8 _

_ (Exact same ride, exact same breakfast) _

_ 20 mins early to class, has questions about reading. One of them actually insightful. _

_ Debating me in class with normal arrogant attitude. Strange behavior from Saturday absent. _

_ Weapons maintenance at training grounds. I will do target practice and watch him. _

_ Strange behavior is back. Watched my target practice v. intently and showed no fear when I put straw on dummies’ heads to look like his hair. Red in the face. Chewing on lip? (Is this a fear response?) Eyes very wide on me. Distracting. Became suddenly clumsy with swords he was oiling. Making little noises. Very annoying! _

_ Taking lunch to his room. Have seen him do this often, but suspicious after training grounds. _

_ Afternoon: library. _

_ Evening: fish sandwiches w/ Flayn (conspirator? If Flayn is in on it, then so is Seteth.) Seteth has walked over and is angry. Ferdinand apologizing. Finally entertainment. Still, not useful. _

** _Conclusions: Ferdinand seems unafraid of me in groups but acts very strangely when we are alone. This is in itself suspicious. Will continue to monitor. Need to do a full search of his room._ **

_ 11/9 _

_ (Exact same ride, exact same breakfast) _

_ 15 mins early to class, with a new question. Loud in class as always. _

_ Late morning: volunteers to be Edelgard’s sparring partner w/ axes, is turned down. Normal indignance. Tries too hard against Sylvain and sprains wrist. _

_ Lunch in infirmary. Loud protests that he is fine in spite of swelling. Stupid, foolhardy, reckless. Not a threat. _

_ Stays in infirmary doing homework with Caspar. _

_ Cleans his room. Takes another bath (quick). _

_ Brings homework to dinner, saghert and cream, talks to no one but smiles cheerfully. _

_ Straight to bed. _

** _Conclusions: General recklessness suggests it is unlikely that Ferdinand is capable of secretive schemes. Still, that could be a scheme in itself._ **

_ 11/10 _

_ (Same ride, same breakfast, same early to class routine) _

_ Lunch (sandwich) in courtyard, alone. _

_ Ferdinand to poetry class. Caspar still in infirmary so just Ferdinand and Manuela. (Potential conspirator?) _

_ Ferdinand recites: _

_ “Around every corner, just out of sight, _

_ darkness beckons to me, blacker than night. _

_ Deep in the shadows it creeps and it crawls— _

_ a spider, a snake, a most loathsome thrall. _

_ Its song is a whisper deep in my marrow, _

_ gaze piercing my skin, a poison tipped arrow.” _

_ Missed rest of poem. Hanneman found me and made me go to class. Poem could be: _

_ -Code _

_ -Cypher _

_ -Poetry homework _

_ Ferdinand in library after class, doing tactics homework. Even more cheerful than usual. Possible something w/ Manuela has him in such high spirits? Conspiracy more likely. _

_ **Prioritize searching room.** _

_ More high spirits at dinner (saghert and cream again), but finishes quickly. Goes straight to his room? Highly unusual therefore suspicious. _

_ Sounds from bedroom abnormally quiet. Reading? Murmurs of something, but not the usual humming/singing/talking to himself. V. suspicious! _

_ Caspar out of the infirmary, must find new hiding place for surveillance. Clear sound of Ferdinand locking his door. _

_ Caspar too loud for me to hear Ferdinand over. Done for tonight. _

** _Conclusions: Very fruitful day, in spite of interruptions. Manuela is a very possible conspirator, I must read the rest of his code poem._ **

_ 11/11 _

_ Of course the day I give my letters to a messenger at dawn is the day Ferdinand does something to make him late for his ride. _

_ Croissant with breakfast instead of toast. _

_ Distracted in class, will not look at me or argue with me. _

_ Dosed myself with light poison to skip class and search his room more thoroughly. _

** _Ferdinand Dorm Room Search Findings:_ **

_ No loose stones, no hidden compartments in furniture, luggage, clothing, books. _

_ Nothing hidden in books except large number of velvet ribbons used as bookmarks. _

_ All weapons/armor stored plainly. _

_ Correspondence: letter from Duke Aegir, boring, possibly cypher but reads like any boring letter from Duke Aegir _

_ Notable items: full poem from homework (copied in following pages), book hidden under his mattress! Was NOT PRESENT IN MY LAST SEARCH! _

_ Book v. strange, containing similar themes to poem. V.possibly in the same code. _

** _Conclusions: Something certainly going on here. Manuela likely involved. Have reached out to my people to investigate._ **

* * *

“Around every corner, just out of sight,

darkness beckons to me, blacker than night.

Deep in the shadows it creeps and it crawls:

a spider, a snake, a most loathsome thrall.

Its song is a whisper deep in my marrow,

gaze piercing my skin, a poison tipped arrow—”

“Ferdinand?” Manuela interrupts. 

“Yes?”

“The assignment was a war poem.”

“Yes, I am just getting to that!”

Manuela frowns. “Alright.”

Ferdinand clears his throat and continues:

“O Goddess protect me! Shield me with your light!

For I enter that darkness. I submit to the fight.

Mist and shadow surround me, awake from its slumber.

It sings of hate, of violence, of conquest and hunger.

It laughs at my sword, at my lance, at my fists,

as thick tendrils of evil bind my ankles and wrists.”

Manuela frowns and makes a soft sound of consternation, but does not interrupt this time.

“My armor is useless, dissolved by the mire,

while invisible eyes consume me like fire.

Hot and exposed, helpless and bound

I continue to struggle, to writhe on the ground.

A figure appears, smile wide and cruel.

Looming over me, it speaks: submit you fool.

Teeth sharp as a beast’s, with the legs of a goat,

the strong hands of a man wrap around my throat—”

“Ferdinand, that’s quite enough.” 

He readies himself for her criticism, but his professor seems unsure what to say. “Was it not good? What should I change?”

Manuela studies him for a second. “Ferdinand,” she begins evenly. “What is this poem about?”

Ah, so he had failed to convey his theme correctly. “It is the story of a noble hero’s fight against evil forces. It is not one of those poems that says one thing but means another. I suppose I will have to be more clear.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Why is the hero ‘hot and exposed’?”

“Oh! In the couplet before that, his armor is dissolved by magic, so he is exposed,” Ferdinand explains.

“But why is he _ hot _ and exposed? I thought the fire was a metaphor.”

“Well, it _ is _ a metaphor, but, you know…” Ferdinand does not know the best way to put it. “You know how your skin gets that hot feeling when you know you are being watched? It is kind of like that? I guess?”

“Uh-huh,” Manuela nods, though she sounds unconvinced. “This hero doesn’t seem to do much fighting. He’s mostly just being tormented.”

Ferdinand frowns. He is surprised that Manuela does not understand this. “Is it not more thrilling for him to only win after struggling? Then the victory will feel truly earned!”

“You didn’t describe much of a struggle. You described immediate defeat.”

Ferdinand is getting angry, in spite of himself. It hurts that she, of all people, does not understand. “To rise up from defeat is even more thrilling and heroic! Why, in The Baron from Sreng you spent most of the opera in chains, did you not? That only made it more powerful when you finally defeated the Baron at the end!”

Manuela’s eyes go wide at the mention of the opera. “You saw The Baron from Sreng?”

“Every performance!”

“Was that your inspiration for this poem?”

“Well, no, but… It was a huge inspiration to me in my own life.”

“The Baron from Sreng.” Her tone is still surprised.

“Yes, The Baron from Sreng! All of your operas are important to me in their own ways. That one taught me to never be discouraged by my failures.”

She smiles at him, finally, though it is a bit of an odd smile. “And you saw yourself in my character?” She looks him over thoughtfully. “Hm, I guess I can see that. You know that opera wasn’t exactly about the power of perseverance and hard work as much as it was about...” She pauses, looking at him meaningfully.

“About what?”

“Oh, you really don’t know. Um. It was mostly about me being chained to a wall getting my dress ripped off of me.”

“Yes! And you didn’t let that stop you! You fought through it and triumphed in the end!” The thrill of getting to speak to his hero about her work never gets old for Ferdinand.

Manuela gives him another one of those quizzical looks, opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it, looking at him in silence for a moment. “Why don’t we save the rest of your poem for next time. There’s something I’d like you to read.” She stands up and goes to her bookshelf. Her private bookshelf! Wow. “Oh where is it… come on Manuela, you really do need to alphabetize this stuff one of these days… aha!” She turns to hand the book to Ferdinand and stops herself. “I really shouldn’t be doing this, and Seteth will have my head if he finds out, but…”

“Manuela, my princess, I would be honored to keep any of your secrets,” Ferdinand says as evenly as he can, trying not to betray his excitement for whatever it was she had plucked from her shelf. (Though even to his own ears, the words sound a bit loud.)

“Well, aren’t you sweet.” She holds up the book, a small, neat, clothbound edition. It looks quite new. “The author of The Baron from Sreng also published exactly one book, and I think you should have it.” Manuela gives the book to Ferdinand, and it feels precious in his hands.

“So my homework is to read this book?”

“No, I just…” She cocks her head at him again, there is a fond familiarity in her eyes that makes Ferdinand’s heart pound. “It’s a gift, but I do hope that you’ll learn something from it.”

Ferdinand thanks her until he is out of breath, then walks back to his room with his new sacred copy of The Adventures of Sir Frances, Knight. 

~

Sir Frances turns out to be a very impressive hero. He is brave, clever, quick with his sword, and, by the sounds of it, very, very handsome. (The author goes into quite a bit of detail about Frances’ long blonde hair and fine features.) When Ferdinand is able to sit down with the book that evening, he is quickly engrossed in the story of Frances taking down a trio of dark mages. 

The way it is written is not quite like any knights tales Ferdinand has ever read before, he realizes when the first fight scene starts. The details the author includes are very unusual, but make it a much more visceral reading experience. Ferdinand can almost feel the breath of the the head mage tickling his neck, the rope digging into his skin. The author does not simply say “the mage strips Frances and searches for weapons,” he describes the action as it unfolds, really allowing the tension of the situation to mount. Ferdinand leans forward in his desk chair, eyes wide, turning the page quickly as a wonderful shiver goes through him, imagining the villain’s leather gloved hands running down his own chest as they do to Frances’. How thrilling!

And the thing is, Sir Frances’ breathing speeds up just as Ferdinand’s does. Suddenly very warm, Ferdinand removes his jacket and unbuttons his shirt. (He locks his door, too, while he is standing. It would not do to have anyone walk in on him reading Manuela’s secret book.) The scene of the mage searching Sir Frances for weapons is surprisingly long. The mage is fully capable of doing whatever he wishes with Frances, who is bound, half naked, and completely at his mercy. The mage’s tome of dark magics is present. He could easily use those hands for spellcasting rather than this slow, methodical strip search. 

It is psychological warfare, Ferdinand thinks to himself. Brilliant. Far from the usual stoic heroes Ferdinand has read about, Frances is… well… excitable! He feels everything so strongly, moaning in frustration at the slow slide of the mage’s hands up his calves, removing his boots and searching for hidden knives. 

Ferdinand fans himself absent-mindedly with a loose piece of parchment as he turns the page to find the villainous mage locking eyes with Frances and removing his gloves for a tense moment before returning to his task. In the story, Frances wonders what information the mage is getting from touching their bare skin together. Ferdinand had never even thought of that, but the idea of information being transmitted through touch makes his breath catch in his throat. He shrugs off his shirt and looks down at himself. Bare hands on his skin, sparking with power, drinking in all his secrets… 

Does Ferdinand whimper out loud or is it just in his thoughts? Or is it Frances who is whimpering in the book? Does Frances let out a soft sigh when the mage’s hands cup his face, or is that Ferdinand sighing with relief at tumbling onto his bed and unbuttoning his pants? When the mage’s fingers trace the plush seam of Frances’ lips and force them open so he can probe inside, Ferdinand does not think “what could he possibly have hidden in his mouth?” He thinks a simple “YES,” groaning into his pillow.

The indignity! The depravity! Ferdinand thrusts into one hand and clutches the book with his other. He could cry imagining the salty skin taste of an adversary invading him that way, touching and pressing and feeling. Inside his mouth! His mouth that sings and argues and offers prayers to the Goddess. His mouth that is currently panting for breath, muffled slightly. Cruel, knowing eyes looking into his soul, laughing at him, playing with him, enjoying the fact of him.

Those hard, small green eyes. That smirk. Oh, Goddess. Those long, clever fingers stroking the inside of his cheeks, tracing horrible sigils on the softness of his tongue. The mage finally removes his fingers, dripping wet, from Frances’ swollen mouth. Ferdinand is convinced this is the best book anyone has ever written.

“A shame to ruin such fine clothes, but I wouldn’t want to untie you,” the mage says to Frances, taking a dagger to his riding pants. He speaks with Hubert’s voice, smiling Hubert’s smile. And it is Ferdinand who bites his lip at the shock of cold steel on the inside of a thigh, who flinches and gasps and hisses when blade meets flesh, if only for a second.

Hubert tsks him sarcastically, looking at Ferdinand from between his legs and holding up the dagger for him to see. “Careful careful, little knight,” he says, licking the little bit of red off of the blade. “Did no one ever tell you to keep your blood out of the hands of mages?”

Hubert laughs his horrible laugh and ducks his head down. Oh!! Goddess!! Hubert licks the blood off of Ferdinand’s thigh. “You taste so sweet,” he says, before attacking the little wound with his mouth. Sucking the blood out, tonguing the slit, fingers digging into the muscle of Ferdinand’s leg. It lights up parts of Ferdinand’s body he had never known he had.

The hand holding up the book quakes with strain and Ferdinand fucks into his fist, rolling his hips like a dance, pillowcase wet in his mouth. Hubert finishes drinking, and stands, cupping Ferdinand’s face once more. It takes all of his willpower not to lean into the touch. A thumb strokes his cheekbone and those laughing eyes look into his own. “Now you’ll always be a part of me, and I you, my love.” He laughs, cutting Ferdinand’s ropes and immediately warping away. 

Ferdinand drops the book, rolling onto his back as quickly as he can and coming on his chest and stomach, a wet, red mouth and cold green eyes sharp in his mind. His orgasm shudders through him like a thunderstorm, leaving him lazy and gorgeous. He feels like a cat stretching in the sun between naps, even as he wipes the quickly cooling come off of himself with a handkerchief. He feels as though he has won something, but cannot articulate what. What had he been doing? Oh, yes, Manuela’s book.

Of course, Sir Frances, the hero who had undergone the many tortures Ferdinand imagined himself enduring. Ferdinand reaches for the book off the carpet and continues. The author describes Frances standing up and enjoying a stretch after his captivity. Frances is perturbed by the events, but pleased not to be dead, and more motivated than ever for these terrible mages to face justice. He is understandably sleepy, though, after being drained of blood. The way the author describes Frances’ heavy limbs and lazy calm feels oddly similar to the sensations in Ferdinand’s own body.

Ferdinand smiles to himself, grabbing a velvet ribbon and marking his place, lying back in bed and closing his eyes.

Hm.

Ferdinand’s eyes open and he reaches for the book, finding the passage he had just read. Wait a moment, he thinks, scanning the scene, eyebrows furrowed in spite of his sleepiness.

He looks more closely at the way the author describes the mage probing inside of Frances’ mouth. Even Ferdinand has to admit that it is, well, a bit much. It is not… He thinks of Manuela’s reaction to his poem. Was that...? Is this...? He is so sleepy, still, his body relaxed and sinking into his mattress. He lets his eyes fall shut, and he does not dream.

The next morning, Ferdinand goes straight to Manuela’s room, knocking on her door urgently before his morning ride.

“Oh what in the... eugghhh,” he hears from inside.

“Professor Manuela!” He hisses. She opens the door a crack, peeking one eye out. Ferdinand holds up the book, blushing hot and dark, his eyes huge. “Is this _ pornography _!?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: there's a fantasy/fiction within this work of fiction that involves some light bloodplay, knifeplay, groping, bondage and dubcon. 
> 
> also some not necessarily the best in real life boundaries from Manuela, but like... how do you sit down your 18 year old student who stans you to tell him about the birds and the bees of BDSM?? she's doing her best.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand is good at something. Hubert tries to crack a code. Remire Village sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slapping some specific warnings in the endnotes, but there's more explicit jacking off, weird antagonistic dynamics, light angst and overall game spoilers, but especially for the remire village calamity, in this one. also an **emetophobia cw**!!!

Ferdinand watches Hubert cross the dining hall, a parcel in his hands. What could that be? A gift for Edelgard, perhaps.

“Ferdinand?” Manuela’s voice snaps his attention back to their conversation.

“Yes, my apologies.” Ferdinand has had a couple of days to recover from the initial shock Sir Frances gave him. He spreads some apricot jam on his toast and takes a bite.

“I was saying that ignoring what calls to you is pointless. It’ll get you nothing but heartache and premature wrinkles.” 

“But what if opposing forces call to me? I cannot follow all of them.”

“I didn’t say follow everything that calls to you, but you have to acknowledge them all, at least to yourself. I don’t know why.” She sips her drink, some kind of orange juice cocktail in a tall fluted glass. “I’ve seen people lie to themselves, and it never ends well.”

Ferdinand does certainly value honesty, so, over the days that follow that lovely late Sunday breakfast with Manuela, he gives introspection his best effort.

Everything Ferdinand knows about romance has been learned from operas and novels. Here is how it works: two people meet by chance and instantly adore each other. Sometimes they overcome the obstacles ahead of them and are able to marry. Other times, they are not, and die tragically. Their love is expressed through passionate declarations and grand gestures. Ferdinand has never seen anything like it in real life, though he hears about nobles who run off with their lovers from time to time.

Everything Ferdinand knows about marriage has been learned from watching nobles in society in Enbarr. Here is how it works: two families seek to forge an alliance or strengthen their houses and bloodlines. They arrange a marriage. It is always preferable if the two parties already know and like each other. Sometimes, they even meet at school or a social engagement and ask their families if marriage is an option.

What Ferdinand knows about sex was learned at the age of 10 from a wizened palace healer pointing at diagrams in an anatomy book. He has also picked up on bits and pieces from the few crass jokes people who do not know him have made in his presence. He is sure there is more to it than what he knows, but it has never seemed quite interesting enough for him to put the effort into finding out what. 

Ferdinand understands that these three things— romance, marriage and sex— are related, but only in theory. The puzzle pieces never quite fit together. Now, with the addition of his poetry homework and Sir Frances, Ferdinand is stumped. There is, however, something finally intriguing about the whole mess of it. It is all a bit more than Ferdinand is up to conquering all at once, but physical lust does not need to make sense in his head for it to settle into his body. For the first time in his life, Ferdinand is _ desperate _ to be touched. Follow what calls to him, right? That should be simple enough.

Ferdinand has always been an enthusiastic learner. Never one to be good at something the first or even the second (or third or fourth or fifth or sixth) try, he has always considered himself quite fortunate to have a natural zeal for study. So when he throws himself into the process of learning his own body, it is something of a surprise that everything he does feels good. The pleasure of something as simple as brushing his own hair grows exponentially with his mind focused on the tickle of boar’s hair on his scalp, the gentle tug of the brush as he moves it downwards. He finds himself absent-mindedly stroking a velvet bookmark as he studies, reveling in the lushness of the soft fabric against his fingertip. Ferdinand’s entire body is awake, and it loves everything the world has to offer: the supple leather of his riding boots, the grit of dirt and sawdust when he falls under the heavy thud of Caspar’s training axe, the cold of a sorbet spoon against his lips. 

At first, Ferdinand worries this will be a distraction, but it is really not such a change. Ferdinand has always loved to be alive, always loved to move and be moved. What’s more, he finds himself sleeping more deeply, more relaxed and fluid in the saddle and on foot. He feels rather like a teapot filled for the first time with hot water, and that all of these little parts of him are finally able to unfurl in that heat, to infuse his being with a depth and color he had only ever gotten hints of before.

He feels less prone to petty arguments or bouts of sudden stubbornness. _ Mostly _ less prone. There are, of course, always exceptions. Hubert seems to be hellbent on testing Ferdinand’s newfound calm, always ready with a soft snort of laughter when Ferdinand stumbles or with a wry retort to Ferdinand’s sincerely expressed arguments. It used to feel more fair, the way Hubert meted out his unpleasantness, but criticizing Linhardt’s laziness or Caspar’s noisiness seem to have fallen away in favor of Hubert’s true passion: making Ferdinand feel small.

The curse of self-awareness, Ferdinand learns, is that now, when Hubert whispers a vague threat so close that Ferdinand can feel the faintest brush of lips against the shell of his ear, he is able to connect the feelings of want that shudder through him with something he can concretely desire. If Ferdinand took the time to think about it, he would realize that there had been a sudden, recent change in Hubert, who never used to whisper anything to Ferdinand, let alone waving a chemical soaked handkerchief in his face while taunting “I could strike at any time,” or looming over him in an empty hallway with a “be careful little dukeling, lest the shadows come and take you while you sleep.”

Anyone examining the situation calmly and rationally would see that something is different, but Ferdinand feels anything but calm and rational. Hubert’s behavior towards him makes him alternately faint and furious, and imbues his nightly explorations with a dark, delicious urgency.

One night in the courtyard, Hubert appears out of nowhere, pushing Ferdinand up against a stone column. Surprised and angry, Ferdinand pushes back before Hubert can speak. “Do not forget which one of us has the advantage in physical strength, Hubert!” A quick shove is enough to get Hubert off of him, but not enough to tame the fire blossoming in Ferdinand’s chest. He moves forward with all the force he can, slamming Hubert into the opposite column and holding him there with all his bodyweight. He had forgotten how slight and bony Hubert is, and quickly worries that he is being too rough with a delicate mage.

Before Ferdinand has a chance for that worry to set in, a white gloved hand is gently moving his chin so that something cold and wet can make its way up his cheek. Ferdinand shivers in disgust and starts to pull away when that hand jerks his head back. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, but Hubert is so close he is out of focus, and touches their foreheads together. “Oh darling,” Hubert all but purrs, stroking Ferdinand’s jawline with gloved fingertips. “It really would be _ such _ a tragedy if something were to happen to that beautiful face of yours.” Hubert drops his hand, lowering his head so that the tips of their noses brush, and then pulls away.

Speechless, enraged, and painfully hard, Ferdinand looks up at Hubert’s smug smirk, opens his mouth to say something very righteous and noble, is unable to think of anything, snaps his mouth shut, and turns on his heel to stomp back to his room as quickly as he can. He unlaces his pants and takes himself in hand without so much as removing his jacket or gloves. That voice in his ear, that body pressed up against his, that bizarre but also vaguely familiar exchange, oh Goddess! His face burns in humiliation and stinks of drying spit. Ferdinand comes quickly, shoving three still-gloved fingers into his mouth as he does.

* * *

Hubert sits down in a small, forgotten kitchen for a much needed meeting with Lady Edelgard. He isn’t quite ready to present his evidence on Ferdinand to her, but he can feel his investigation closing in. Sure enough, word had come back from Enbarr confirming that no one has ever heard of a knight (in legend or history) named Sir Frances, and there is no record of a book of his tales existing. Even the book’s publisher (which _ does _ exist, alarmingly enough, in Enbarr) has no record of the title’s existence. Hubert’s fastest courier spy, a traveling merchant, had delivered a sampling of the press’ other works for him to look over just that morning, along with a jar of rare Brigid honey, which Hubert slides across the table towards his liege lord.

Edelgard smiles at the gift, giving him a gracious “thank you Hubert” before they begin going over where things currently stand with their coup. All of their sources agree that Prime Minister von Aegir is not well-loved, even among his friends, most of whom he forged ties with over their shared values of greed and cowardice. Their operatives throughout the Empire are making excellent progress. 

The conversation moves to their most vile allies and begins to feel much less optimistic. “None of my spies have been able to successfully follow Tomas when he leaves at night,” Hubert confesses. “His warp magic leaves no trails. Are you sure he’s with them?”

Edelgard nods, looking down at her hands, suddenly appearing at least two times her age. “I can’t place it, but I almost remember him. I look at him and I— he makes me feel sick.” She goes quiet for a moment, and Hubert waits.

He hates seeing her like this, but he also cherishes it. It is a sign of trust, to show him this weakness, and it honors him. Lady Edelgard will never smile again like she had when they were small children, but moments like these remind him why he does what he does: to create a world where she never has to feel afraid again.

“I need a break,” Edelgard announces after a minute of quiet, getting up to put the kettle on, pinching the bridge of her nose. “There is only so much about my uncle and his… cohorts we can try to predict.”

Hubert nods, joining his future Emperor at the counter and setting to the task of making coffee. He is happy to take a break, but he knows Edelgard too well to expect that to happen.

“Things are progressing well with our list of potential student allies,” she begins after a moment, making Hubert smile softly to himself. “You should see the sparkle in Dorothea’s eyes when she imagines a better world. It’s inspiring.”

Hubert nods, still smiling. “She is well connected, shrewd and talented. An excellent choice, my lady.”

“Caspar is an odd one, I cannot quite find the right way to approach him. I was dubious about Sylvain as a recruit, particularly since his motives seemed a bit dubious, but the Professor tells me that he has no love for the nobility system, nor of crests.”

“That could be promising. What about our other transfers?”

The kettle whistles, and Edelgard takes it off the stove, pouring water into her teapot and then into Hubert’s coffee press. “I’m told Felix hates every institution in Fódlan’s culture, even knighthood. He should be easy. Lysithea... “ Edelgard looks up at him, a small smile and a sparkle in her eye. “Oh Hubert, I _ like _ her.”

“She certainly doesn’t suffer fools,” Hubert says.

Edelgard nods, barely able to suppress the warmth in her voice. “My suspicion was right. I overheard her talking to Linhardt. We’ve spoken a bit, and she is incredibly perceptive. I think she’ll put the pieces together.”

When Edelgard looks at Lysithea, surely she thinks of violet-eyed brats who once followed her around the Imperial Palace, even as their numbers dwindled. Hubert tries not to follow that train of thought. 

“How are things going with Ferdinand?” Edelgard asks. 

Hubert is surprised. He has been very deliberate about waiting to explain the Ferdinand situation to Edelgard. He sips his coffee. “What about Ferdinand?”

Edelgard rolls her eyes. “You are always looking at him, Hubert! And following him around! Recruiting him to our cause is very ambitious, but I agree that he would be an incredibly strategic asset.”

“Recruiting him!?” Hubert sputters.

“Yes, how is it going? I’ve tried approaching him a couple of times, and it’s been useless. He’s always liked you better, anyways.” She drinks her tea cheerfully.

“I’m _ investigating him for treason _, not recruiting him!” Sometimes Lady Edelgard is incredibly off-base. Hubert stands up and snatches the parcel of books from the counter where he’d left them.

“For treason?” She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, look at these.” He drops the books on the table in front of her. “Fresh from a printer in Enbarr I caught providing Ferdinand and Manuela with secret materials in a deep, complex code.”

Edelgard frowns, mouthing “and Manuela” as she unwraps the books and carefully opens the first of several: a small pamphlet with the title A Treatise on Punishment. Her eyes go wide and she puts it down quickly, moving onto the next. Her eyes get even bigger at that one, a modest volume called Training Your Human Pegasus. The third, a larger formatted, but thinner book called Gronder’s Groaning Grapplers Volume VII and boasting 24 illustrated plates, she looks at thoughtfully, even turning it to get a different angle. “Huh,” she says, blushing slightly.

“You see, it’s a very complicated code. I’ve been working on it all month. Hopefully these will help me crack it.”

Edelgard puts the books down and looks into Hubert’s eyes with that solemn determination that is always visible when she is working something out in her mind. “What did you find of Ferdinand’s that you’ve been trying to decode?”

Hubert sighs, a little relieved he no longer has to hide this investigation from the person he trusts the most, and explains all of it to her, from the day at the stables to the bizarre poem to the sudden appearance of the suspicious novel under Ferdinand’s mattress. Edelgard nods and finishes her tea, listening with the patient attentiveness she has had since she was a small child.

When he is finished, Edelgard takes a deep breath. “Hubert, I am more confident than ever that Ferdinand poses no threat to us. I do not want this to distract from our primary goals or your coursework.” She places her fingertip under her chin and adds, “That said, I think that if his strange behavior piques your interest, you should follow your instincts.”

“Very reasonable, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert agrees, even as he bristles slightly that she thinks two people conspiring right under her nose pose no threat to her. “I wonder if…” Hubert smiles, a plan coming together in his mind. “I wonder if I should bluff, and pretend I’ve cracked the code. How would he react?”

The cathedral bells ring, signaling the start of dinner. They both stand and begin to tidy up. “How do you propose bluffing?” she asks.

“I could simply find some of the more commonly used phrases in the coded works, and then slip them into conversation.”

Edelgard’s eyes are sparkling again, a smile threatening to break the regal neutrality of her expression. “Why Hubert, I think that is a wonderful idea.”

~

All Hubert can do is work to get a rise out of Ferdinand (an embarrassingly easy feat) and work on cracking that code, which is what he does. Code-breaking is a demanding, time-consuming process, so when Hubert finds a walled off alcove next to Ferdinand’s dorm room, he is pleased to have an observation spot where he can work in peace. 

Every evening, Hubert listens to the familiar scratchings of a quill on parchment, the gentle turning of pages, and incessant obnoxious humming. Ferdinand sings softly to himself often throughout the day when he thinks he’s alone. In his room, his machinations are interspersed with humming, quiet singing, and murmurs of “no, that won’t do…” or “yes, of course!” Then the humming stops, and Hubert is never sure if he should listen more closely or offer Ferdinand the kindness of a little bit of privacy.

Hearing, seeing and knowing things that are not meant for him is a natural part of Hubert’s position. He is mostly used to it. Still, he is a human being, with all of the weaknesses and pitfalls that go along with it. Hubert cannot help his natural biological reaction to the sound of Ferdinand’s gasps and moans, audible even through the barrier of a stone wall. Especially now that he knows how hot Ferdinand’s skin gets when he’s angry, or the subtle smell of mint leaves on Ferdinand’s breath if you get close enough. 

It has been two weeks of resolutely trying to tune out Ferdinand’s belabored sighs and muffled groaning, but listening all the same, in case he does something interesting afterwards. In case he says something in the throes of lonely passion that might give him away. Two weeks of trying and failing to crack Ferdinand’s blasted code. Two weeks of Hubert’s face heating unbidden every time he sees Ferdinand with rosy cheeks and wild hair, out of breath after riding or training. Two weeks of stealing moments away in abandoned corridors and empty courtyards so that he can loom ominously while also reciting the code’s strange, florid prose in a way that sounds convincing. Hubert tries to act like the “characters” in these “stories,” hoping it sends the right message. But they are all so handsy, so it is two weeks of touching Ferdinand in increasingly strange but effectively intimidating ways. Two weeks of grinding his teeth so he does not think about the feeling of firm muscled strength against his body while he listens to Ferdinand drive himself to ecstasy again and again. Two weeks of trying to focus on being scary and remembering the right words and gestures even as he is wondering what Ferdinand might be thinking about that has him so undone night after night after night.

Hubert isn’t opposed to sexual gratification or masturbation or anything like it. He relieves himself daily, quick and silent as he is about anything else. It leaves him with a clear head and a sense of calm. It relaxes his muscles. It is an act that is no different from eating or sleeping or bathing. He cannot imagine what possesses Ferdinand to drag this process out to 45 minutes, sometimes even hours of loud, theatrical indulgence. What could he possibly be doing in there? Certainly not the fast, efficient strokes Hubert uses.

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, breathy and soft. He sounds surprised, but pleased. Has he discovered some new place previously untouched? Is he… The image of Ferdinand bent over, reaching behind himself pops into Hubert’s mind. This isn’t Hubert’s task. Hubert needs to crack Ferdinand’s stupid, impossible code. _ There’s no such thing as knowing too much about the subject of your investigation _, Hubert reminds himself. So he sets his quill down and listens closely. Ferdinand wouldn’t breach himself dry. Surely the countless lotions, salves and oils he must use to keep his skin and hair so soft and fragrant (something that Hubert is not thinking about) could be used to ease the way. Even the grease they use for their swords would work. Ferdinand is fussy, a perfectionist, and clearly has no problems wasting hours of his life on self-indulgence. Ferdinand would take all the time in the world, relaxing the thick muscles of his lower body and spreading himself with oiled fingers. Hubert imagines finding such softness and tenderness, such vulnerability and warmth in the heart of so much hard muscle would be a heady feeling.

“Ohhh,” Ferdinand says, deeper this time, an exhale rather than an inhale, as if to confirm all of Hubert’s suspicions. _ Good _ , Hubert thinks to himself, pleased with his own savvy. Hubert himself had begun to try it, years ago, but felt stupid and stopped. Ferdinand, typically, has no such compunctions about putting himself in foolish, silly situations. Hubert is still a little shocked he doesn’t yell out “I AM FERDINAND VON AEGIR” when he climaxes. _ Maybe he’s saving that for when he’s finally with a partner _, Hubert sneers in the flickering candlelight of the alcove. 

Of course Ferdinand is as shameless in this as he is in anything else. Of course Ferdinand the traitor, Ferdinand the buffoon, Ferdinand the vain and petty would rock his hips backwards, face pink, mouth wide open and guileless as ever as he works himself open with slippery fingers. Hubert can picture it as easy as anything. What’s the old saying? Being able to read someone like a book? If reading Ferdinand’s expression and body for his feelings is reading a book, it’s one of those alphabet books for babies. Simple. Colorful. Laughably easy.

Hubert puts his ear to the wall, one hand in a fist and the other pressing firmly against the erection in his uniform trousers. The irony of Ferdinand is that no matter how obvious everything he thinks and feels is, he still feels the need to vocalize all of it every second of the day. Even now, Ferdinand will not shut up. He sniffs and moans, breathing loudly, his omnipresent humming turned to tuneless whimpers. Hubert wants to hear him— not the unending vocalizations, but the song Ferdinand’s body sings. Hubert wants to look into Ferdinand’s wide, stupid eyes as they both listen to his wet hole clinging hungrily to his fingers. The sound echoing in the stone room— would that be enough to cow the ever unabashed Ferdinand? Hubert imagines that look of defiant, horrified confusion he is growing to know so well turning, changing… not to something softer. No, when Hubert makes Ferdinand gasp and writhe, he wants to look into the man’s face for an affirmation that yes, Hubert has been right all along. 

The mental image of Ferdinand wrapped around him brings Hubert back to himself. This is a man he is investigating for treason. This is a man who would never look at Hubert that way, who looks at Hubert with revulsion on a daily basis. Hubert backs away from the wall and the silly train of thought, returning to reality and his duty. If he does finally give in and sneak a hand into his pants when Ferdinand gets particularly loud, it’s fast and silent, witnessed only by the old stone monastery walls.

~

In the span of less than a day, Hubert goes from climaxing to the mental image of Ferdinand gasping for breath to seeing Ferdinand, as well as the rest of their class, gasping for breath in the thick smoke of Remire Village. It is a nightmare in every possible way. It is simply so ugly, so unnecessary, so disgusting, so wrong. The air is so poisoned with smoke that when Lady Edelgard’s eyes well up with furious tears at what Tomas or Solon, apparently, has done, they are easily missed. Hubert thinks he hates these— whatever they are… certainly not people— even more than she does.

The battle is messy. The Black Eagles have improved since the start of the year, but not to the extent that would ready them for such a fiery, tragic mess as this. Bernadetta’s aim is off. Caspar keeps getting too angry, which makes him even louder than usual. Linhardt runs himself ragged trying to keep an eye on Caspar while following the Professor’s orders to heal as many people as he can, while also vomiting every so often. Dorothea clings to the Professor, getting in a shot every so often, but mostly hiding in the ranks of Jeralt’s mercenaries. It isn’t all bad. Petra keeps a clear head, shouting encouragements from her pegasus. Lysithea seems more motivated than ever, taking down the enemy with such speed and precision Hubert feels all but superfluous. Edelgard is imposing and inspiring as always, and Ferdinand… Ferdinand is very _ present _. Several times when Hubert gets into position, Ferdinand appears out of nowhere, sweeping aside a swordsman emerging from the flames into Hubert’s blind spot.

When all the civilians are safe, and Edelgard, Lysithea, and the Professor are getting into formation to take down Solon, Hubert finds himself watching a furious Caspar approaching the Death Knight. Hubert rushes to intercept them, annoyed at Jeritza’s usefulness to their cause, wishing his own magic was strong enough to just decimate the lot of them. Also hoping that his technically ally remembers their deal to not kill each other. He’s raising his arms for a spell nowhere near strong enough to down him, when he hears the sound of hooves and an all too familiar shout. 

Ferdinand throws his lance, hitting the Death Knight in the shoulder, right where the pieces of his armor meet. It is an excellent hit, but not nearly enough to keep him from countering. Hubert has to dodge to get out of the way of Ferdinand’s horse, which rears back on its hind legs, almost screaming in terror. 

Ferdinand falls, knocking Hubert down with a soft thud into the dirt. Hubert’s head spins, and he sits up gingerly, as a flash of Lysithea’s magic flares up to his left. Ferdinand’s eyes are half open. He is dirt-streaked and bleeding heavily. Hubert tries to shift Ferdinand in his lap into something that won’t be quite so hard on his spine. How long do they sit like that? Ferdinand’s horse makes a noise that Hubert has heard enough times in battle to know means nothing good. Had they groomed this horse, that day in the stables? Hubert feels sick, nauseated from the smell of burning flesh and trying to contend with the collateral damage of this war, dizzy. Ferdinand’s breathing is rough but even. Hubert doesn’t think he’s ever seen his face so close without it being contorted into some mask of anger.

Ferdinand’s face. Hubert traces his jaw with a fingertip. Has he done this before? Of course not. The whole world spins and Hubert gags, shutting his eyes tight until the spinning stops. Ferdinand’s face is still there when he opens them again. It really is lovely. The ghost of a memory is just out of grasp, and Hubert all but giggles in spite of it all thinking that yes, it really would be sad if anything were to happen to Ferdinand’s face.

Linhardt calls out to him, limping their way. Solon and the Death Knight are gone, when had that happened? 

Wide, lovely amber eyes look up at him, and Ferdinand smiles stupidly. “Hubert… You are alright.” Hubert is just trying not to vomit onto his injured classmate, his injured rival? The world spins again and what had Ferdinand said? Had he smiled? Had he ever smiled at Hubert before? Before Hubert can ask for clarification or try to make sense of anything at all, Jeralt is scooping Ferdinand’s limp body up off of him with a soft “come on Ferdie, let’s get you fixed up.”

With Ferdinand off of him, Hubert turns over and promptly throws up until he has a long enough break in heaving to down a concoction. He wipes his mouth, pushes all of the swirling confusion to the back of his mind, and gets up to check in with the Professor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **specific warnings:** nonconsensual voyeurism, unnegotiated kink (kind of) based on mutual misunderstanding, reference to dead family, and some low self-esteem stuff.
> 
> hey, remember that thing about me updating once a week? well that sure didn't happen. hopefully this chapter was juicy enough to make up for it. 
> 
> Ferdinand has been getting all of my love so I really wanted to flesh out what's going on with sweet Hubie! massive thanks to Pleasant_Boy for helping me get through this and for shouting out Sir Frances in their fantastic fantastic fantastic fic [Til Your Death Do Us Part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959337/chapters/49833398)! also thank you so much to everyone who has kudosed and commented, it means the world to me and really keeps me going.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert neglects his sleep schedule. Ferdinand wins a prize. Also, Garreg Mach throws a ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real warnings on this chapter. a couple of tiny alcohol CWs, I guess. serious Three Houses plot spoilers in this chapter though!!! please at least get to the timeskip before you read this!!!!!!
> 
> also HOLY SHIT!!! I have never inspired fanart before with a fic and I am so delighted about [this beautiful Manuela](https://twitter.com/Allyssinian/status/1195169952149360640)??? I could cry. I love her.

It’s almost dawn when Hubert is finally able to sit down with Lady Edelgard. They are both exhausted, but Edelgard has had to pull double duty, fighting the battle and then conversing with the Professor as the Flame Emperor. She sways on her feet a bit before sitting down and Hubert’s heart aches for her. He bows deeply, putting all of his emotion into the gesture. “My Lady.”

“I need your focus on Monica until further notice. They’re planning something. Oh, Hubert…” She trails off. The bags under her eyes are heavy. She looks a decade older.

“Of course, I will suspend all tertiary investigations. My Lady, I beg of you, please get some rest.”

“I will,” she promises. “How are our injured?”

“Ferdinand is the only one still in the infirmary,” Hubert says, his face heating with a certain amount of embarrassment. “But he will be fine.”

“The Professor told me he almost died for you.” Edelgard almost sounds like she’s teasing him.

“He is a fool,” Hubert replies, shaking his head. “I would have been fine.”

Edelgard smiles, soft and sad. “He had no way of knowing that. Ferdinand risked his life for you.”

When a mage reaches out for a spell, there’s a soft droning hum that only he can hear. It usually lasts only for the fraction of a second it takes between initiating the spell and the spell actually happening, but when a mage is all tapped out and reaches for one, the drone can go on and on, trying to connect with a spell that simply will no longer respond. Hubert is not flattering himself or boasting when he says he is a highly intelligent analytical thinker. To be anything less would be a dereliction of duty. It would be treason. He is unaccustomed to thoughts leading nowhere. But when Hubert thinks about Ferdinand sacrificing himself to save his life, the next thought feels out of reach, like a spell that won’t respond, leaving his mind empty, mocking him with a soft droning hum.

“Be well Hubert,” Edelgard says. “Report back to me about Monica. Good night.” Yes. Edelgard will sleep, and Hubert will investigate. He puts a kettle on for coffee and splashes cold water onto his face. Time to work.

* * *

Ferdinand wakes up on crisp linen sheets feeling a little sore. As much as he would like to stay in the infirmary, maybe ask for a cup of tea to sip in bed while he listens to Professor Manuela sing to herself, he has work to do. The Black Eagles need him! What had Hubert been thinking!? Attacking the Death Knight at such a close range? With no armor? Hubert is supposed to be the shrewd, strategic one! 

Ferdinand stomps around the grounds of Garreg Mach, considering it, for days. Was he trying to save Caspar? It is possible. Perhaps there is a heart somewhere under that cold exterior of his after all. Ferdinand never gets so much as a thanks from Hubert for saving his life, but at least Hubert stops threatening him. Ferdinand insists to himself that he is very glad the distraction is gone, and he can continue his studies and development free of the feelings those encounters evoked in him.

The Professor is the one to snap him out of it when she asks him to represent their class in the White Heron Cup. Ferdinand loves to dance almost as much as he loves to sing, so he puts his all into his practice. It is the biggest responsibility he has been entrusted yet, and she seems so confident in him, so approving. (She smiles it him almost as often as she smiles at Edelgard now, which is to say, twice!) He expects Hubert to break their unspoken truce to mock him for it, but he hears nothing. This is his chance. This is Ferdinand’s chance to show how good he is to the entire school, to the Knights of Seiros themselves. Had the professor chosen Edelgard, her obvious favorite? No. She chose him. Ferdinand privately doubts that Edelgard has even come close to the mastery over her body that Ferdinand is developing over his own.

Even so, Ferdinand is surprised that he really does win. Maybe Hilda and Annette are too concerned with the Ball and wishing at the Goddess Tower to put their all into practicing. Maybe Ferdinand really is just that good. As he receives his prize, he finds himself searching for a long face frowning in the crowd, listening for a disapproving click of the tongue or a snort of disgust in the din of applause. Nothing. Ferdinand is congratulated by one and all, from those who mean it and those who do not. For some reason, this is a disappointment. He finds himself wishing for someone to ruin his fun, to mock the prize he had worked so hard for.

Without anyone to challenge it, the victory feels hollow. Was that the only reason he had wanted it in the first place? No. It cannot be. It is just that now, without the Cup to distract him, Ferdinand realizes that the halls of Garreg Mach itself feel less grand now that every shadow is really just a shadow. Classroom debates have lost all of their heat. No one is there to antagonize him at dinner or in class activities. As a result, Ferdinand feels oddly uninspired. 

One night, late in the library, a storm raging outside, Ferdinand sees the figure he has been hoping for, shadow long and ominous in the flickering lamplight. His breath catches in his throat, his body lights up with excitement. They are all alone. Ferdinand jumps as the sound of thunder, biting his lip, growing hard just from the anticipation… and then, stack of books in hand, Hubert passes him by completely. Without so much as a glare or a sneer. 

_ This _is the thanks he gets for saving Hubert’s life? 

Of course Ferdinand is honored that he alone receives that year’s dancer robes and sacred secrets of the dance. At least he has that to hold onto. The magic thrums through his body when he does it, even though the dance itself is something of a disappointment.

“You learned the Church-approved dance,” Professor Manuela explains while they take a break from his crash-course tutoring session in faith. “I’ll teach you some others once you’ve graduated.” Ferdinand’s raised eyebrows must ask his question for him. “Nah, not a dancer. I just know the moves,” she winks. “You’re going to break some hearts in that outfit, you know that right?”

Ferdinand looks down at himself and then back at her. “Do you really think so? Is armor not more becoming?”

She rolls her eyes, taking a nip from the flask Ferdinand resolutely never notices. “Do you really want to know how to drive someone crazy?”

Ferdinand all but lunges forward, the depth and seriousness of his voice scaring him. “Yes.”

* * *

It is clear that Monica and Solon have something to do with the students who are suddenly missing, but Hubert is at a loss beyond that. He is so tired, and he watches Lady Edelgard watch the ball preparations with a certain amount of sadness. Would that she could enjoy it. Maybe when all of this is over, when she is emperor and the wars are all won, they will have a ball in Enbarr. 

The problem of Ferdinand is so baffling as to disappear from Hubert’s consciousness altogether… at first. Then it edges its way in, as it always does, but he still doesn’t let it become a distraction. He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. It’s just that one Sunday the Professor takes them out for practice battles, and he’s so visibly exhausted that the Professor switches him out for Dorothea on the field and sticks him with Lady Edelgard. So he has less to do. It’s just that it’s a stupid practice battle and a waste of his time.

It’s just that it had never occurred to Hubert that Ferdinand could actually become even more annoying, but here Ferdinand is, wearing that _ thing _and being more annoying than ever. 

Yes, Ferdinand is a nightmare at the academy, running around, pacing, humming and singing, always speaking so loudly. And Ferdinand is a nightmare on horseback, able to cover so much ground and tell so many more people that he is, in fact, Ferdinand von Aegir. But on foot again, even in those light, unarmored dancer robes, Ferdinand seems to cover just as much territory. Somehow, the usually delicate sound of the dancer’s golden bells and beaded chains becomes a deafening racket when they’re wrapped around Ferdinand, striding arrogantly around the battlefield. 

Of course Hubert appreciates the tactical use of the spell Ferdinand is taught as his reward for winning the White Heron Cup. The sight of Lady Edelgard taking out two enemies in the time it usually takes to injure one almost brings a tear to his eye. But it is _ barely _worth the headache of Ferdinand’s voice, more haughty than ever, almost singing to the target of his spell, “Do you not feel lucky? The Professor has said I should dance for you!” After just an hour, the newly exposed skin of Ferdinand’s collarbone begins to freckle, and Hubert wants to poison him for it.

Ferdinand has always wanted to be the center of attention, and he has gotten his wish. Even the Professor fawns over him, nodding approvingly at him and assigning him his own battalion.

Hubert scowls across the field, watching Ferdinand talk to the battalion commander. A mercenary leader, probably in his 40s. Most successful leaders are either terrifying or charming. This one is obviously charming. He’s also fairly handsome, with a thick mane of light hair and an easy smile. He’s smiling that easy smile at Ferdinand now, a wry smirk. Ferdinand is beaming, his smile so wide it must hurt his face. Hubert can’t hear them, which is good, because they are surely saying something inane. The commander is probably well spoken and funny. Even if it is just a practice battle with Imperial troops, they should still be taking it seriously. The commander raises his eyebrows at Ferdinand and claps a hand on his shoulder, easy as anything. Ferdinand would hate that, such familiarity from a commoner to a noble. But he doesn’t. Ferdinand’s smile grows smaller but no less sincere. He is giggling. Hubert has half a mind to march over and scold him for not paying attention, but is interrupted. Ah yes, the battle.

The day is unseasonably hot and the march back to the monastery is a long one. They’ve stopped to water the horses and have a snack, and there is Ferdinand again, talking to Commander Mercenary. It looks like they are finally being serious, which is good. The older mercenary pulls his sword and stands at the ready, with Ferdinand watching closely, eyebrows furrowed. The mercenary sheathes his sword and relaxes, gesturing to Ferdinand, who tries to replicate the man’s stance. The commander looks him over appraisingly, and Hubert mentally commends the Professor for putting Ferdinand with someone who can help him with his sword work, a crucial tool for any dancer. Hubert is almost relaxed when the commander sidles up behind Ferdinand, just about hugging him from behind, so he can adjust his sword arm. Hubert watches, heart racing, as the man’s massive paw of a hand rests on Ferdinand’s left hip. Ferdinand turns his head, looking backwards and practically batting his lashes, smiling a little smile Hubert has never seen on him before, but positively hates. 

Ferdinand’s whole posture changes, and the commander backs away. When Ferdinand does his sword dance this time, his body moves completely differently. He is relaxed where he had once been tense, smooth and confident where he had once been anxious and overeager. He looks right at stupid Commander Mercenary as he moves his hips and jabs his sword, executing the manoeuver impressively. Hubert turns and walks away before he has to see Ferdinand receive another wretched compliment.

Hubert needs to rest, even he can admit that. He has not had a full night’s sleep in… he doesn’t remember. It’s been a while, is the thing, and he is not in control of his thoughts. In Hubert's mind, Commander Mercenary has Ferdinand in his lap, enormous hands grasping the tight muscle of Ferdinand’s body. Ferdinand looks completely debauched, smiling that new smile of his, eyes half lidded. They’re kissing and moaning. Hubert’s mind is too tired to even keep the unwanted image consistent. Ferdinand kneels on the ground one moment and has his ass in the air the next. Ferdinand and Commander Mercenary are in every possible position from every clandestine meeting or filthy engraving Hubert has ever witnessed, all tongues and sweat and bodies. 

Hubert finds the stream where the horses are drinking and dunks his head in the cold water. 

Water dripping down his face onto his robes, he tries to catch his breath. “I fucking hate horses,” Hubert says to the nearest horse, who doesn’t respond. Ferdinand and Commander Mercenary are probably talking about horses. They both probably love horses. Maybe they’ll grow old together breeding horses on a farm somewhere. Ferdinand would probably be very content with such a meaningless life. 

Hubert dunks his head back in the water. Maybe Ferdinand is trying to seduce the commander so he’ll join that treasonous plot Hubert wasn’t ever able to unravel. Maybe he’s trying to kill two birds with one stone. Hubert wonders if Ferdinand is still going on those long solo explorations every night. Maybe they’re not solo anymore. The winner of that stupid dance competition would surely have no end of partners to choose from. How petty. How frivolous. How utterly beneath Hubert. Maybe it really is that commander, who does have a name that Hubert probably knows somewhere in his head. Maybe they’re meeting in an inn somewhere in town, or Ferdinand is sneaking him in past that dunce of a gatekeeper. 

The Professor makes the call to leave. Hubert stands up and is frozen in place, unsure if he is hallucinating or if Ferdinand really is walking over to him, unpinning the top of his dancer robes and removing the undershirt, revealing so much sweaty, muscled body. Ferdinand kneels by the stream, splashing water onto his face and chest.

“The goddess must be angry today, making it this hot during the Ethereal Moon! It feels like summer,” Ferdinand says brightly. It’s the first time he’s spoken to Hubert all month. If he’s really there. If this is really happening. Ferdinand submerges the shirt, squeezing out the excess water and using it to wipe away his sweat. “Ahhh,” he smiles. “That feels wonderful.” He fills his water skin and brings it to his lips, drinking long and deep. There’s that hum again in Hubert’s mind. Ferdinand on his knees in front of him. There’s droplets of water all over him, all over his chest and arms and back, and Hubert watches his adam's apple bob and work as he drinks. Hubert sees this and then... a failure of one thought finding the next. He can’t even tell if it’s real. 

Ferdinand stops drinking, some water spilling out of his mouth down his jaw, and he wipes it away before refilling the skin and standing up. The bells and chains jingle softly now, not the cacophonous sound Hubert had heard earlier. Ferdinand looks at him, water and gold and orange hair shimmering in the sunlight. Hubert just stands there, gaping silently, as he has stood there through this whole encounter. “Well, back to the march!” Ferdinand smiles at him and walks away, the muscles in his back shifting as he pins the outer robe back in place over his bare shoulder. The bells of his costume sound so sweet now, like birdsong. It is only when Hubert kneels back down to dunk his overheated face in the water one last time that he notices Ferdinand’s wet undershirt in the grass. 

Yes, that had been the real Ferdinand, careless as ever. Hubert cannot venture a guess at how expensive a replacement would be. Taking it with him is simply the frugal thing to do.

Lady Edelgard takes one look at Hubert’s wet, haggard appearance and sends him to lie down in the back of the supply wagon the rest of the way. If she happens to notice him burying his face in a strangely familiar piece of white fabric as he falls asleep, she doesn’t say anything.

* * *

Ferdinand knows he looks very handsome and dashing in his formal uniform, but he wishes it were a real ball. A ball where he could wear something of his own. It feels wrong, somehow, to all be wearing identical outfits for a special occasion. Still, as he dances with student after student after student, he thinks maybe it is better that he blends in somewhat. He even gets the courage to ask Manuela for a turn on the dance floor, where she smiles conspiratorially at him and lets him dip her low and dramatic.

“If I’m not careful, you’ll sweep me off my feet,” she teases as the song ends.

“My princess, just say the word and I am yours,” he bows and kisses her hand. 

“We got quite a bit of attention, I’m afraid,” Manuela says, turning and winking at one of several approaching knights. “Perhaps our grand romance will have to wait.”

“I am nothing if not patient.” Ferdinand looks for an exit. He needs some fresh air. What he finds is another large knight holding his hand out. It belongs to Guillaume of all people, the commander from Ferdinand’s new battalion. Confused, but not displeased, Ferdinand takes his hand.

* * *

“Take tonight off,” Lady Edelgard says, but only after they walk through the doors of the ball, Hubert already dressed in that ridiculous evening uniform with the too tight pant legs and short little jacket. If someone wants to stab him, it will be far too easy in clothes so tight. “We have everything on Monica we can hope to get. Please try to enjoy yourself, as a gift to me.” And then she is gone, swept away by Dorothea and Petra.

So Hubert stands in a shadowed corner glowering, his arms crossed. He hopes that frightening passersby will be enough to satisfy Edelgard’s request, but he doesn’t enjoy it. Ferdinand is omnipresent once again. He seems to be taking his newfound popularity in stride, dancing with everyone who asks. Flirting back with everyone who flirts first. Politely rejecting more than a few whispered suggestions. The way he dances with Manuela, though, raises Hubert’s suspicions again. They _ are _ awfully buddy-buddy, aren’t they? They move together very easily, almost as if they know each other much better than they have any right to. There’s also just something about the way they look at each other that sets off an alarm in Hubert’s mind. It’s the look of two people who share a secret.

Lady Edelgard had said nothing about suspending his investigation of _ Ferdinand _ for the night, and what better time than now, when everyone’s guard is down, to observe. Hubert moves closer, grabbing a flute of champagne and holding it casually, watching Ferdinand and Manuela move across the floor. They are so graceful. Manuela really is still very beautiful, and Ferdinand fills out the evening uniform exactly as it was probably intended to be filled out. They are every bit the perfect pair, Hubert thinks disdainfully. Ferdinand dips her so deep her hair grazes the floor, his nose almost brushing the edge of her breast. Could they be lovers? Manuela isn’t usually discreet, and if she’d gotten involved with a student, surely Seteth would know and be furious.

It must be something more nefarious. It’s the only explanation for the code, the strange behavior. Lady Edelgard had been skeptical, but she also told him to follow his instincts. Hubert trusts his instincts, and his instincts tell him to watch Ferdinand. So he watches Ferdinand finish the dance. He watches Ferdinand’s eyes sparkle secretively. He watches Ferdinand kiss Manuela’s hand and begin to walk away. He watches Ferdinand take the hand of a new partner— none other than Commander Mercenary. (Whose name is Guillaume, and is an old friend of Captain Jeralt’s, but had disappeared for many years to no one knows where, but probably Brigid.) Hubert watches Ferdinand take the follower’s part with equal grace as he had led. In the hands of a skilled enough partner, he’d probably float above the air itself. But Guillaume, who seems to have perfectly fine rhythm, lacks the training necessary to truly make Ferdinand shine.

So no, this dance is not as graceful as the turn with Manuela, but it’s much more suspicious. The two are really talking, not secretive eyes and cheeky flirtations and innuendo. They’re looking over at Manuela, and then at Jeralt, and then at Edelgard, discussing something very seriously. They come to some sort of conclusion and Ferdinand looks smug, which Hubert never likes to see. 

Hubert has been a spy almost his whole life. He stopped his first assassination attempt before he had grown his first beard hair. Lady Edelgard is right to trust his instincts— they are fine-tuned, and he’s even operating on several nights of good sleep. He knows when something isn’t right. 

The song ends and before everyone can even finish their polite clapping, Hubert downs his glass of champagne, strides across the floor and snatches Ferdinand’s hand. This ends tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to get caught up in replying to all your lovely comments, but I read them all and they keep me going!!!! we're finally wrapping things up and it's all coming to a head. ehehehehe. Just one more chapter and then an epilogue!!!! I'm rubbing my hands together about it.
> 
> also if you want to check out what a fabulous ball in Enbarr might look like, I can't recommend Pleasant_Boy's fic ["Til Your Death Do Us Part"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959337?view_full_work=true) highly enough!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to Stubborn Baby Ferdie! A lovely dance! And...Hubert finally starts to get to the bottom of this whole Ferdinand situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see!!!! Sorry for the delay, I struggled and struggled with this chapter until finally realizing I was going too long and needed to slice it in half. Hopefully there's one more chapter to go, but it might be two. Thanks so much for your patience and lovely comments, which I will try to get to now that I finally am updating again!
> 
> CHAPTER CONTAINS SOME DUBCON KINK ELEMENTS, but both of them really do want to be there and they're having a blast. Specific warnings in the endnotes.

1175

“What are you doing down there, Von Aegir? Have you decided to show us some kind of avant-garde floor work?” The dance mistress prods him with her cane. “On your feet, you’re holding up the whole class.”

“I am sorry, Madame,” Ferdinand says, scrambling up, face burning in humiliation. He landed directly on his tailbone, but does not say a word of complaint. He will get it. He has to get it. An Adrestian noble of his stature who cannot dance every role in the Adrestian Waltz? The prospect is unacceptable to him.

“I’m sorry,” Ferdinand’s partner whispers to him, a third or fourth son of a minor house who is tall and strong, but clumsy. “It was my fault.” 

Ferdinand shakes his head. “No, we will just keep trying.”

“Von Vestra, are you confident enough to help tutor Lady Edelgard when she is well again?” The dance mistress taps her cane impatiently. The tall, quiet boy nods. “Good, you dance with von Aegir instead.” 

Ferdinand looks up at Hubert and bows as best he can, grateful that you do not have to look at your partner in a waltz. Hubert makes him… nervous. Somehow. Ferdinand usually avoids him as best he can.

But the mistress begins her count, and they get into position. The music starts and… oh…  _ this _ is dancing. It is not so hard now to bend backwards like he had been shown, to stand on his tiptoes being held like this—held by Hubert like this. No, Ferdinand cannot see him, but that actually makes it ever so much worse. Hubert could have any number of frightening expressions on his face. Hubert could be doing anything, and Ferdinand would never see. The prospect thrills him in a way he cannot begin to understand.

The elderly dancer counts so fast, one two three, one two three, one two three, one two three. It is so much faster than the regular waltz. Hubert could lift them off the ground turning so fast. At this very moment he could be flying them away somewhere terrible.  _ One two three, one two three. _ Something in Ferdinand soars when they change directions at the same time without fumbling. The feeling of success. He loves that feeling.

But Hubert… the mystery of Hubert weighs on Ferdinand. _One two three, one two three._ They are turning too fast to close in on the detail of his face in the mirrors of the room. _One two three, one two three._ They are turning too fast, circling the room, everything spinning and spinning, to tell anything at all. _One two three, one two three._ _Change directions._ Ferdinand no longer feels like he is in a secondary ballroom at the Imperial Palace, surrounded by petulant boys who would rather be playing swords. _One two three, one two three._ No, the music swells around them, the air growing dim and cold. They really are going somewhere else. Hubert really has taken flight. _One two three, one two three._ Where are they going? Where is Hubert taking him? Ferdinand bites his lip, feeling anxious and warm and something strange and exciting and… 

He trips. He falls. The music stops. He is on the gleaming wood floors in a brightly lit room. Someone is giggling at him. The clocktower bell rings, marking the end of the hour, the end of class.

“You’re all dismissed,” the dance mistress says with a sigh. Ferdinand is sure he is the only one who is not relieved by this announcement.

A white gloved hand appears before him. It is Hubert offering to help him up. Ferdinand does not want to look at him, but forces himself to. Hubert has grown his hair so that it hangs over one of his eyes. It makes him cut an even more intimidating, mysterious figure. But at this moment he looks at Ferdinand as if he is confused.

“You know,” Hubert begins. It might be the first time Hubert has ever spoken to him alone. “You don’t have to learn this. You’re a boy. You really just have to be able to lead.”

Ferdinand glares at him, suddenly furious. “Do you think I cannot? Do you think I am too stupid or clumsy just because I am not perfect the very first time I try something like your precious Edelgard?”

“Don’t you dare say her name that way.” Hubert spits the words out, rising to his full height, now feeling to Ferdinand every bit the older, stronger boy. Hubert has killed before, Ferdinand remembers. 

Still, Ferdinand sets his jaw and puts his hands on his hips in a manner he hopes is very intimidating. “I swear to you on the von Aegir name, on my crest, that I will master this. I swear I will dance the Adrestian Waltz finer than any lady in the Empire,  _ especially _ Edelgard.” He spins on his heel and walks away.

The next week, when Ferdinand rises onto his toes at dance class, heavy bags under his eyes, muscles screaming in protest, so covered in bruises that even Caspar is impressed, he takes Linhardt’s hand and does not fall once. Even as his legs threaten to give out, even as Linhardt fails to hold him up properly, even as his entire body begs for rest, Ferdinand manages to catch Hubert’s expression in the mirror. Hubert watches Ferdinand with wide-eyed, slack-jawed shock. And that is enough to keep Ferdinand upright.

The dance mistress gives him a pleased nod, and at the end of class, Linhardt shakes his head. “Just looking at you is making me tired. Was this really worth all the effort?”

“Of course it is.” Ferdinand smiles at Linhardt, watching Hubert storm away out the corner of his eye. The thing that no one seems to understand is that he is Ferdinand von Aegir, and for him it is  _ always _ worth it.

1180

_ I am dreaming _ , Ferdinand thinks. It would not be the first time.  _ Claude or someone has slipped something into my wine and I am dreaming this. _ Hubert’s grip is firm and supportive on his back, the hand joined with his own commanding and strong. They turn and turn and turn, footsteps silent, their breathing louder than the music. When had they left the ballroom? The music has grown so soft. There is no awkwardness, no confusion, no stumbling. They switch directions simultaneously, without a signal, without looking at each other. 

Ferdinand does not have to see a mirror to know that their stance is perfect. Hubert turns them and turns them, and Ferdinand feels as though they are floating, floating like two shadows. Floating like two ghosts in this abandoned monastery courtyard. Ferdinand sweats, even in the cold air of winter night, the harsh, fast, demanding Adrestian Waltz having its way with him. But he feels feather-light in Hubert’s hands. Ferdinand cannot see Hubert’s face, cannot imagine what has come over him.  _ This cannot be real _ , he thinks again, but the old, familiar pain of arching his back and standing on his tiptoes grounds him in reality. And then the song is over, leaving Ferdinand gasping for breath, still holding Hubert’s hand. For a moment, he is disoriented, unable to remember life before they had begun dancing. They had danced as children, but they are not children anymore. Ferdinand is no slight boy. He could overpower Hubert. Not easily, but he could. Why is that relevant to dancing? He pants and pants, in nowhere near the right kind of shape for the sprint of a dance they have just performed.

Hubert says nothing, he does not let go of Ferdinand’s hand. Ferdinand listens to their breathing, to Hubert’s breathing. Has he ever heard Hubert breathe so hard? He steals a glance at this man who has haunted him for a decade, and sees Hubert’s cheeks flushed, his expression just as overwhelmed as it had been on the bank of that stream. The stream, of course. Had it worked? 

Once he has caught his breath, Ferdinand turns, tired of games, tired of subterfuge, and looks at Hubert properly. “Hubert, I—”

He is interrupted by the press of lips against his own. People’s lips are always shockingly soft and plush and sure in books, but Hubert’s feel as hard and grim as they ever looked. Ferdinand would not have them any other way. A single cricket sings somewhere nearby, unaware that the seasons have changed. The warmth and light of the ball are distant, the applause for the string quartet like faraway raindrops. Everything is breath, the swish of fabric, burning cheeks and chilled noses. Ferdinand softens his mouth, opening it, swiping his tongue at the meeting of Hubert’s lips, and Hubert moans (!!), a puff of hot breath from his nose hitting Ferdinand’s face as he tilts his head and their tongues meet.

It is nothing like the Adrestian Waltz, nothing like fantasies in his bedroom, nothing like novels or operas or poetry. Kissing Hubert is like riding, like battle, like staying in the sauna too long. It is real and immediate and weighty. Hubert is a man, Ferdinand realizes. Not a phantom, not a shadow, not a ghost. Hubert is a man just as he is, with chapped skin and a hot, wet mouth and red blood in his veins. Hubert may be thin but he is solid, rooted to the ground by gravity like everyone else. 

His hand is about to crush Ferdinand’s wrist but Ferdinand sucks Hubert’s tongue, reaches his free hand into Hubert’s hair, runs his thumb across his temple. Hubert lets his wrist go and just melts, softening against Ferdinand. Ferdinand opens his eyes to find Hubert looking at him, not a glare or a sneer, not in shock or confusion. Ferdinand takes in Hubert’s strange expression, breaking the kiss in a slow, long pull that feels utterly obscene. He cannot place the way Hubert looks at him, at first. But then Ferdinand watches Hubert lick his lips, his breath hitching and blush deepening.  _ He looks debauched _ , Ferdinand thinks, a heavy wave of desire washing over him.  _ Dear Goddess, he looks like distilled sex _ . 

Ferdinand surges against Hubert, kissing him again, and before he can wrap his arms around the other man’s neck, he finds he has been shoved to the ground. He makes to stand up but Hubert stops him, stepping on his chest. Ah, there is the sneer. But is not quite the usual sneer. Nostrils flaring, eyes blown out, face pink, lips wet and swollen, Hubert looks furious. Ferdinand can feel him trembling. The heat and desire that had built up in Ferdinand twists in his stomach, sick and ugly and chilling.

This is a feeling he knows all too well. This is rejection.

* * *

Hubert is just so angry, so fed up with all of it. He is so fucking sick of failure, of always being one step behind. He had known that not everything would go perfectly this year, that they are taking innumerable risks, that their task is a massively ambitious one. But being bested by Ferdinand von fucking Aegir? In a game of codes and espionage? It would be humiliating, and Hubert refuses to let that happen. That is why he kisses him, probably. He kisses Ferdinand to throw him off, to disarm him. He kisses Ferdinand because he wants to. He kisses Ferdinand because if he is about to execute the idiot for treason, it would be a waste not to. He kisses Ferdinand expecting to be pushed away, to be slapped. He will wipe his face with a smirk and tell him he knows everything, watching Ferdinand’s disgust shift into terror. It will be perfect.

But Ferdinand kisses him back. Ferdinand kisses Hubert back and Hubert has never kissed anyone before. Ferdinand kisses him back and Hubert understands why the Professor picked someone so ridiculous to represent their class in that contest. Hubert understands why he won. Yes Ferdinand is foolish and petty and arrogant and lacking in talent, but he… He is very good at kissing. And that makes him dangerous. Ferdinand, an idiot, an absolute idiot by all accounts, who wastes his money on fineries and his time equally on skills he will never master and excessive amounts of physical pleasure, has developed an easy sensuality, a seductive vulnerability, and a tiny part of Hubert is tempted to give in and see just how good a human body is capable of feeling.

It is that temptation that jolts Hubert into action, and he pushes Ferdinand to the ground, holding him down with his foot. Ferdinand looks up at him with hurt in his eyes. Hubert doesn’t know what to do with that. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The toe of his boot brushes up against the stupid golden tassel at the front of Ferdinand’s jacket. What does he want? The only time Hubert has ever wanted to know what Ferdinand is feeling is the time Ferdinand shuts up. The thought makes him laugh a little, and he feels his mouth curl up at the side, wet as it is with Ferdinand’s spit.

Ferdinand is strong enough to push Hubert’s foot off of him easily, and stands, face pinched in his signature frown. This is the part that’s easy. The handkerchief is pretreated, and Hubert’s hand fits it over Ferdinand’s nose and mouth like he’s done it a million times. Hubert can’t remember the last time carrying an unconscious dead weight up a flight of stairs had been anything but routine, even if he does thrill a little that Ferdinand is so much stronger than he is, at least physically.

In his dorm room, Hubert strips Ferdinand from the waist up, flopping him onto his bed before chaining him to the wall. His interrogation kit is easy to unpack, so Hubert just sits and waits, watching Ferdinand’s unconscious body slumped over on his floor. He is about to change back into the uniform pants he is more comfortable in when Ferdinand begins to stir. Oh well.

Ferdinand blinks sleepily at him before tugging on his chains. “Hubert? Hubert, let me go this instant.” His voice is even, measured, controlled, but there is a note of panic to it.

“You risked your life for me, and as a thank you, I am giving you the opportunity to confess. Anyone else would already be dead,” Hubert bluffs.

“Confess to what? If you do not unchain me, I—“

“You’ll what? Be very cross with me?” Hubert taunts, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Refuse to serve me tea? What will you do, Ferdinand, chained to my wall, to punish me for this vile, ignoble act?” Hubert snorts out a laugh, enjoying the way Ferdinand’s face goes pink with anger. The pink even spreads down his neck to his chest. “You can save us time and unpleasantness if you confess now. I know most of it already.”

Ferdinand pulls at his chains impotently, grunting, his voice raising to a shout. “First of all? I have nothing to confess to you! Secondly, we are in your dorm room and someone is SURE TO HEAR MY SHOUTING!”

Hubert really laughs at that, laughs at Ferdinand’s obvious lie and naive assumption that Hubert hadn’t thought of that. He tips his head back and lets the laugh rumble through his chest. 

Taking a scalpel from his kit, he crouches in front of Ferdinand, getting nice and close to his scowling red face. “Do you think this is my first interrogation? Containing screams in a single room was one of the first spells I ever learned.” He looks at the scalpel dramatically. “What to do with you then? I’m sure it will be quick, pathetic as you are. Will I even be able to pull one of your perfect nails off of your fingers before you’re begging for mercy and telling me everything?”

But then it is Ferdinand who scoffs. “Do you really believe I am as weak-willed as that?” He lifts his chin, the perfect picture of defiance. “You who have spent years of our lives criticizing me for being too stubborn?”

It’s true, Ferdinand thrives on pain and failure. The more he suffers, the more determined he gets. Hubert takes Ferdinand’s chin in his hand and holds it in place, facing him. “Then what will I do with you?” Ferdinand’s breath stutters, his pupils dilate. Strange. He had looked almost like that before, when they...

Hubert stands, returning his scalpel to his desk, far from Ferdinand’s reach. Ferdinand tries to lunge at him, shouting in frustration, angrier than Hubert has ever seen him. Ferdinand pulls and struggles, working up a sweat, breathing harder and harder. “You really are magnificent like this, all your pretentions dropped. Where is your nobility now, Ferdinand? You’re just pure rage. Is this what you’re like all the time? Is this the real Ferdinand?” Hubert looks him over, admiring his muscle tone, his stubborn beauty, his... huh...

Hubert crouches in front of Ferdinand again, looking down at the visible bulge in those horribly too tight evening pants. “Ferdinand,” it comes out sounding far more curious than he intends. Hubert reaches a hand down and cups him, pressing gently. Yes, it’s exactly what it looks like. He watches Ferdinand’s head tip back, gasping out a breath, as Hubert squeezes and rubs him experimentally. “Ferdinand,” Hubert says again, a sigh almost. He feels his own heart pounding in his chest. He watches Ferdinand’s cheeks turn a deep, deep pink, his chest blooming the same color. Ferdinand’s eyes are clenched shut, and the outline of his erection grows more distinct in Hubert’s hand. Hubert strokes down its length and Ferdinand’s mouth falls open, his breathing high and shallow. 

Fascinated, Hubert unsheathes his dagger. “Be very still,” he warns Ferdinand, slicing along the side seams of his pants one leg at a time down to the knee, the fabric falling, revealing impressive thighs and a pair of white trunks barely containing Ferdinand’s blatantly erect cock. The bronze colored hairs on his legs stand on edge at the press of the cold flat of the blade. He is trembling. Hubert holds his hips with his free hand. “You  _ really  _ don’t want my hand to slip now,” he whispers, sliding the dagger up into the shorts, cutting them open. The fabric is softer than anything Hubert has ever owned. 

* * *

“Is this for me?” Hubert whispers. He is so gentle all of a sudden. His voice sounds almost kind, but Ferdinand does not have to look to know that his eyes are cruel. He is mocking him. 

A gloved knuckle brushes the underside of Ferdinand’s erection, humiliatingly bared, and even that is enough to send a shudder through him. He bucks his hips to chase the touch, finding nothing but air.

“Answer me, Ferdinand.” Hubert presses. “Is this for me?”

Ferdinand nods, impossibly embarrassed, impossibly aroused, hot and tight and not nearly as afraid as he should be.

“You kissed me back,” Hubert says, as if he is piecing something together. Ferdinand can barely hear him over the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Ferdinand cannot bring himself to look, and shuts his eyes tight when Hubert tilts his face towards him. The lips that find his are so much gentler this time. They nudge his mouth open like a question. Ferdinand cannot stop himself from losing himself in it, wanting so much to… he does not know exactly. Just wanting. He is consumed by wanting. He lets his mouth be opened even though he should not.

Maybe he lets it  _ because _ he knows he should not.

The feeling of Hubert’s gloved hands on him is maddening, familiar yet unfamiliar. The slide of their tongues is so hot and the metal of the chains is so cold. Ferdinand does not understand why any of this is happening, He does not understand why he is chained to a wall. He does not understand what Hubert is doing or what Hubert wants from him, why Hubert rejected him in the courtyard but is now kissing him more sweetly than Ferdinand ever thought possible. But understanding was never part of what drew Ferdinand’s eyes to the shadows, to Hubert. And now this spectre made flesh is swallowing his moans, running his hands down Ferdinand’s chest, and no, Ferdinand does not understand at all. But when has not understanding ever stopped him?

Hubert pulls away and Ferdinand tries to follow, but can only go so far. The look on his face is not cruel, in fact. Hubert looks almost solemn. “This is what you want,” he says. It is not a question.

“I—” Ferdinand begins, but Hubert wraps his hand around his length and the words collapse into a groan.

“This,” he says. “This is what you want.”

Ferdinand nods, quickly and eagerly, trying to thrust into Hubert’s hand. But he loosens his grip immediately. 

“I can give this to you, Ferdinand. I  _ will _ give this to you. But first, you have to tell me everything.” The sneer is back, the glint of determination in Hubert’s eye.

“I do not know what—”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert interrupts softly, menacingly, running his nose up Ferdinand’s neck. “Don’t play with me.”

“But I—”

“You schemed to acquire something that is not meant for you, that you are not worthy of, and that is treason, Ferdinand.” Hubert’s harsh words are hot against the shell of Ferdinand’s ear, his hand still cruelly gloved and loose around Ferdinand’s erection.

“I do not think it is treason—“ Ferdinand begins to protest, and Hubert squeezes his cock gently, interrupting him, making him moan and thrust mindlessly. The cruelty of his accusation doing nothing at all to temper the heat Ferdinand feels.

“You really are desperate aren’t you? How about this: for every question you answer honestly, I will give you a little bit of relief.” He grips a little tighter for a second, sending shivers of pleasure through Ferdinand’s body. “Look how much you love it. Come on. What do you say?”

Ferdinand’s hips are bucking of their own accord. “Yes,” he hears himself say, voice wrecked with lust.

* * *

Hubert has never considered that this would be in his repertoire of interrogation tactics, but he seems to be bluffing his way through it so far. Ferdinand is so far gone he hasn’t seemed to notice Hubert’s own embarrassment—not to mention Hubert’s own erection.

He doesn’t overthink it. “Ferdinand, look at me,” he commands, standing up. If Hubert didn’t know better he’d think Ferdinand drunk from the unfocused look he fixes him with. He leaks onto his ruined trousers. There’s something beautiful about it.

Hubert takes off his jacket and begins to roll up his shirtsleeves. The gesture is a classic, and is as effective on Ferdinand, whose breath catches and eyes widen, as it is on everyone Hubert has ever interrogated before. Hubert suspects the same principles as using pain are true here—anticipation is key. Making a show of it is key.

“How long?” Hubert asks. “Tell me how long this has been going on.”

Ferdinand’s expression crumbles a bit, and he looks away, blushing even harder, trying to steady his breathing. “I cannot truly say. A very long time, maybe, unconsciously? Or pretending it was something else? But I- I did not know until recently.”

“But how long has this plan been in motion?”

“ _ This _ plan?” Another breath. Hubert watches him tense and untense. “Not long. Nothing became really serious until the school year began, and nothing was put in motion until this month. And even that was just barely.”

There is a shame, a defeat, people have when they confess. When they break. Hubert always enjoys it. On Ferdinand though? The victory feels massive. Ferdinand seems to shrink in on himself, he pulls on his bonds so slightly, and seems to settle when they are immovable. He looks anywhere but at Hubert, peeking at him every few seconds as if it’s at all subtle, shifting his weight, chewing his lip, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, tangling them in the ruin of his pants. 

Hubert kneels back down in front of Ferdinand. What should he do? Hubert knows what he  _ wants _ to do. He wants to kiss Ferdinand again. He wants to kiss this new, defeated Ferdinand. He wants to touch him, to explore his body like he had heard Ferdinand do alone so many times. He wants to feel him, tight and twitching and hot around him.

Maybe all of that will work. Hubert peels a glove off with his teeth and the pretense of not looking at him disappears. Ferdinand stares, a million emotions running across his face. How had Hubert ever lamented Ferdinand’s obviousness? Every change in his breathing, every shift in his expression is an absolute delight. 

What had he said? This year. Good news. He can’t be far along at all.

Ferdinand’s eyes follow Hubert’s bare hand and his mouth falls open. “Do you want this?” Hubert asks, waving his fingers in front of Ferdinand’s face.

“I—” Ferdinand’s breath catches. Or he stumbles over his words. His perfectly groomed eyebrows contort, his nostrils flare. Hubert drinks all of it in with a greed he has never felt in prior interrogations.

“How amusing,” Hubert smirks, dropping his hand and teasing his fingertips up Ferdinand’s thigh. “For years I have sought a way to shut you up, only to discover that  _ this _ is the one thing that can render you at a loss for words.” Ferdinand tenses and shakes, biting his lip, twitching inelegantly, watching Hubert’s hand creep up to his hip.

The whine he emits when Hubert removes his hand is pure animal. Pure desperation. What’s more, Ferdinand is obviously still aware enough of himself to wince at the sound of it, shutting his eyes in embarrassment. It’s delicious.

Ferdinand is not the most powerful man Hubert has ever made tremble before him. He is not the most muscular man Hubert has ever rendered pathetic, nor the most pathetic. He’s certainly not the smartest. So it really doesn’t make any sense that Hubert should watch him with such hungry fascination. It doesn’t make sense that the way Ferdinand jumps at the light touch of Hubert’s thumb to the inside of his thigh makes Hubert’s chest feel so light. The way the muscle dances under his touch, the way Ferdinand’s breathing speeds, his eyes widening and jaw clenching, each little gasp and sigh and high pitched squeak that breaks into the air as illuminating as any piece of information has ever been. 

None of this should make Hubert feel the way he does—like he has unearthed some forgotten spell and is taking it apart, learning how it works and seeing what he can make it do.

Ferdinand gasps, eyelids fluttering, when Hubert’s thumb brushes over the tight, delicate skin of his balls, grazes the side of his cock, and collects a drop of precome from the tip. He whines again when the contact is lost, but his eyes go enormous when he sees the thumb rise to his lips, where he accepts it. Hubert deposits that drop of precome into Ferdinand’s mouth, and Ferdinand’s moan reverberates through his whole hand. Ferdinand’s sounds had been obscene and intoxicating through a stone wall. The fact that Hubert is now the one causing them makes them exponentially moreso. 

The sudden tight suction around his thumb is a punch of heat to Hubert’s core. His own member twitches in his pants, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he’d changed into the ones that are more spacious. Ferdinand closes his eyes, fanning surprisingly long eyelashes over his cheekbones. He sucks rhythmically, tongue caressing the pad of Hubert’s thumb. Strangely, as aroused as he is, Hubert had forgotten about his own pleasure until this moment. As if Ferdinand sucking on his thumb is a reminder to Hubert’s baser instincts of what soft, wet, eager holes are capable of.

However, soft, wet, eager holes are not Hubert’s purpose tonight, so he pulls his thumb out, pressing down on the plush pink of Ferdinand’s lip, tracing it and then the upper one before pulling away, sucking Ferdinand’s spit off of it himself.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand gasps. “Please.”

Hubert smiles at how debauched and unguarded he looks. Ferdinand is every torturer’s dream. “Please what?”

Ferdinand bites his lip and looks down, embarrassed still! “Please kiss me?” He asks softly, blushing somehow even deeper.

Hubert leans in, brushing their noses together. “You want me to kiss you?”

Ferdinand has already tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Is he so eager or merely confident that Hubert will comply? He waits, lips parted. The gesture is simultaneously gorgeous and obnoxious.

Hubert can’t stop smiling, he feels almost giddy. He brushes his lips against Ferdinand’s, a ghost of a kiss, and stands, walking back to his chair. The way Ferdinand’s face falls bolstering him, making him feel light and airy on his feet. “How many conspirators are there?” Hubert asks, retaking his seat and grinning openly.

Ferdinand’s head tips back again, but this time it’s with a groan of frustration. It’s the prettiest sound Hubert has ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-negotiated kink, including: bondage, interrogation, drugging, a little bit of knife stuff (no blood), begging & verbal humiliation
> 
> woooo so glad to be updating this again!!! I'm on twitter @specialboi8 mostly talking about danmei these days but I'm still RTing cute FE3H art


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is. the big finish. unbetaed so I may be popping back in to make edits, but yeah. here they are. time to get to it.

Hubert’s interrogation is thorough, but his ministrations are the opposite. He pulls humiliating confession after humiliating confession out of Ferdinand, rewarding him with only the briefest of teases. Each hurdle of frustration presents a new wave of arousal, somehow, even as Ferdinand confesses each detail—that, yes, his poem was about his feelings. That Manuela did not know specifics, but encouraged him to at least discover what he did want, if not to actively pursue it, and vaguely what actively pursuing it would be like. That the book of Sir Francis tales had been something she happened to already have, written before Ferdinand was even born. That no, Guillaume is not involved, that they barely know one another, that any flirtations Hubert had seen had been a ruse to trick him, that Guillaume is only at the ball to court the famous songstress Ferdinand has been lucky enough to befriend. 

Ferdinand confesses all, knowing full well that each kiss and caress, each squeeze and lick and grazing of teeth is insufficient payment for his honesty, and not caring, chasing after Hubert’s lips and hands, reveling in both the warmth of his kindness and the chill of his withholding. 

“I do not know what more I can tell you,” Ferdinand admits, trying to steady his breathing, trying to ignore the way every cell in his body is singing to be touched. A chorus of desire.

“Oh?” Hubert asks, peeling off his other glove with such purpose that yet another little sound of distress tumbles out of Ferdinand’s mouth.

“I have told you everything, and thoroughly embarrassed myself in the process.” Ferdinand insists, steeling himself and setting his jaw, even as he watches Hubert pull out one of the leather skins they keep weapon oil in. “You- _ oh _\- you—” Hubert’s expression does not falter, even as he uncorks it and pours oil on two of his fingers, rubbing them together.

“I? I what?” He teases, legs crossed so casually in his chair, fingers glistening in the lamplight.

All of Ferdinand’s skin is hot, he is so hard and so understimulated that it has long since started to feel painful. His cheeks burn. His nipples ache where Hubert has teased and teased and teased them only to abandon them to the cool air each time. “You are so cruel,” he hears himself say. His voice is shaky. He can feel his lip quivering, his eyes getting hot. 

Hubert kneels close, straddling Ferdinand’s thigh, looming over him. He blocks out the light of the candle behind him. “I feel I have given you rewards commensurate with the information you’ve provided. Do you not agree?”

Ferdinand wants to touch him, to guide Hubert’s oiled fingers between his legs. He wants to slide into Hubert’s cruel mouth, to touch and be touched without limitations. “I do not agree,” Ferdinand insists, sniffling, resolute in his decision not to cry.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert croons in a sardonic sing-song voice, “are you about to _ cry _?”

“N-no,” Ferdinand barely suppresses a hiccup. He tries to thrust up against Hubert’s thigh, but only gets the slightest fuzz of the pants’ wool-silk blend. He pulls on his bonds, reaching for Hubert’s face. Nothing. He can get nothing. He is shaking, he realizes. “Hubert,” he chokes out, begging for something he cannot name, blinking hot tears out of his eyes. “Hubert, please. I have done everything you asked.” A tear falls properly, wetting his cheek, and Hubert chases it with his tongue.

Hubert groans as he does it, the first outward show of any feeling but smug satisfaction he’s given in ages. “I suppose,” he says. “You are the same silly boy you’ve always been, you don’t seem to pose any immediate threat to the Empire, and I did promise.” His words are reluctant but his tone is one of that same wicked amusement. 

Before Ferdinand can ask what posing a threat to the Empire has to do with his embarrassing efforts to seduce Hubert, Hubert’s hand is around his cock, a blessing. A relief. He feels his whole body reacting, arching into it, trusting that he will not be betrayed and deprived this time. Hubert strokes him slowly and firmly, greedily kissing the tears off Ferdinand’s cheeks. “Hubert,” Ferdinand hears himself sigh, turning his head to steal a kiss before Hubert can pull away.

This time it is Hubert who deepens the kiss, Hubert who tangles his bare fingers into Ferdinand’s hair, Hubert who groans into Ferdinand’s mouth as if he had been waiting the whole time to do just this. Ferdinand breaks the kiss by accident, opening his mouth to cry out when Hubert twists his hand.

But Hubert looks undone once again, even fully dressed. _ I did that _, Ferdinand thinks to himself with pride. He parts his legs on instinct, and Hubert’s visible eye widens. His hand stills.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert hisses, “do you want me here?” He squeezes Ferdinand’s cock. “Or,” moving his hand down, and down and _ oh Goddess _… “Do you want me here?”

* * *

Hubert slides his index finger into Ferdinand and meets no resistance, hearing himself moan involuntarily as he does. It’s… impossible that it should be this easy. “Are you so well-fucked as this?” He asks without meaning to, pulling his finger out and adding another, fucking them both into Ferdinand with ease.

Ferdinand squeezes around him at his words, face slack. “Only- hah- only by my own hand.”

Hubert shouldn’t be shocked by that, but he is. He has seen so much of human vulnerability, has listened to Ferdinand do this to himself countless times, but knowing and feeling are two different things, and Ferdinand stretched and delicate and quivering around his fingers is astonishing.

“So what do you think about, night after night, fingering yourself like this?” Hubert can’t help himself. He wants to know. He always wants to know.

“I- _ oh _ \- I think about- _ hah _\- all kinds of things,” Ferdinand struggles to get out. 

The way Ferdinand speaks still grates on him, the way he holds his body, the way he squeezes around Hubert’s digits. It’s all infuriating. “‘All kinds of things’? So you’re telling me you spend your evenings bent over your desk, fucking yourself on your fingers thinking about what? Tactics? Faith? Noble sensibilities?” 

“No- I- ah- no- I imagine—” Ferdinand keeps threatening to transform into something beautiful, and Hubert doesn’t want that. Hubert wants Ferdinand to stay absurd. He wants Ferdinand to think about him when he fucks himself. He wants complete ownership, complete, perfect control. His mind is frenzied with it. Anger has never felt so hot and needy as it does when it comes to Ferdinand. He’s moving faster now, angling his fingers to find places that make Ferdinand’s body go taut. 

He speaks without thinking, mocking on instinct, the words tasting so good in his own mouth. “You imagine you’re being fucked? That makes more sense. You go to your room and fantasize about being looked at and admired and fussed over. I bet you want to be told that you’re beautiful, that you’re wonderful and brilliant and talented.” Hubert is sure he’ll get his wish someday. There are plenty of fools in the world impressed by Ferdinand’s accomplishments, his crest, his name, his status. “No,” he continues, to himself, responding to a line of thought Ferdinand has not been privy to. “No, I won’t allow that.” Ferdinand whines high in his throat, arching his back, rolling his hips to meet Hubert’s hand. Hubert looks into Ferdinand’s eyes. “I think that if you want a cock you should beg for it.” 

Ferdinand moans at that, not objecting at all, just moves his hips and looks at Hubert under heavy lidded eyes, mouth slack and open and inviting. Still not absurd enough. Still too pretty. Hubert feels so hot, so alive, so hungry. “Please,” Ferdinand says so softly it’s less than a whisper.

“What was that Ferdinand? You’ll have to speak up.” 

“You want me to beg, so I will beg you. Please Hubert.” He has flushed so pink, sweat dampening his hairline. 

“You want…” The words are clearing out of Hubert’s mind as he tries to make sense of what he’s being asked.

“Hubert, please fuck me. Please let me have this. I will never ask you for anything again.”

Hubert pulls his fingers out, watching hope spark in Ferdinand’s eyes, and then thrusts them back in, adding a third. “Is that not what I’m doing? What would you call this, then? A massage?”

Ferdinand’s face flickers between petulance and lust, pure frustration. “You know what I—”

“Ferdinand von Aegir, are you asking _ me _ for _ my _ cock?” Hubert teases with sarcastic surprise, curling his fingers inside with a flourish.

There’s no petulance, no entitlement, no bravado in Ferdinand when he replies, simply: “please.” It is just honest need, truly beautiful. Hubert can’t stop himself from kissing him. This Ferdinand, too lost in the haze of his stupid lust to be anything but completely truthful. This Ferdinand who is soft and pliant and open and desperate. This Ferdinand who begs for his pleasure. Hubert wants to see tears in Ferdinand’s eyes. To ruin all his idealism and naivete. To punish his disloyalty. Hubert still has no interest in horses, but the prospect of Ferdinand, broken and obedient, makes him understand for the first time the urge to tame something strong and willful.

“So is that what you think about?” Hubert asks when he finally breaks the kiss. He feels drunk and sharpened at the same time, perfectly focused on Ferdinand while the rest of the world is a blur. “Me and my cock?”

Ferdinand nods, squeezing his eyes shut, like it hurts him to admit it.

“The man you so detest?” Hubert can’t help but smile. 

“I do not—” Ferdinand begins to disagree, but Hubert curls his fingers again, making Ferdinand choke on a moan.

“You run to your room between classes to bend yourself over and imagine the horrible, cruel Hubert von Vestra opening you up, reaching all your secret places.” There’s no point in trying to hide the delight in his voice. Ferdinand looks somehow both ecstatic and miserable, biting his lip and rolling his hips to meet Hubert’s ministrations. “Look, Ferdinand,” Hubert teases, rubbing his other hand down his own visible erection. “Didn’t you notice I’ve been hard this whole time? I could easily give you what you want.”

Ferdinand’s eyes widen enormously. “You… _ all _ this time?”

“Some of us have something called self-control. You wouldn’t know anything about it.” As if to prove his point, Hubert abandons his neglected hard-on once again, instead wrapping his hand around Ferdinand. “Not everyone is as needy and pathetic as you are.”

Ferdinand’s eyes roll up into his head, even as he tries to sputter a protest. “But you could— Oh Hubert if you do that— If that is the case, then why will you not just—”

“Because you want it too badly,” Hubert murmurs, watching the last little bit of resistance in Ferdinand shatter. His eyelids start to flutter, and, once again, Ferdinand doesn’t need to ask to be kissed. Hubert invades his mouth, even if Ferdinand is too busy coming apart to kiss him back. When Ferdinand climaxes, Hubert feels it rather than sees it. The pulse of Ferdinand’s cock in his hand, the spasming of Ferdinand’s hole around his fingers, the huffs of breath from Ferdinand’s nose on Hubert’s face, the quivering of Ferdinand’s lips against his mouth. 

Hubert is not someone who lives in the moment. It is not his place to. His purpose is one of thoughtfulness, of anticipation, of analysis. His life is a chess game, and any pleasure he finds is in the intricacies of playing it. But here and now, on the stone floor of his room at Garreg Mach, Hubert’s whole being hums, perfectly in tune not with what was or what will be, but what is. Where there had been excitement and curiosity and hunger a moment ago, there is now only a transcendent certainty. It’s with that certainty that he unshackles Ferdinand and leads him to his bed. It’s with that certainty that he devours Ferdinand’s slack, contented lips, slides his hands up Ferdinand’s back, still a little slick with sweat. It’s with that certainty that he allows Ferdinand’s fingers to unbutton his shirt, enjoys the feel of calloused hands on his skin. It’s with that certainty that he lies back, prone but unafraid as the point of Ferdinand’s nose tickles his ribs. 

Hubert takes in every detail with perfect clarity, from the surge of amused affection when Ferdinand fumbles with the buttons of his trousers to how wonderful it feels for his cock to be freed from the wretched garment to the way Ferdinand leans into the touch of Hubert’s hand in his hair to the blessed heat of Ferdinand’s mouth enveloping him.

Hubert feels present in his body in ways he can’t remember ever feeling before. It’s a different way of understanding, a different way of experiencing. It’s like Ferdinand’s mouth has sucked him under, back into himself. The air on his skin is so cool, Ferdinand’s mouth around him so warm. Ferdinand’s hair in his hand, that stupid orange hair, thick with drying sweat and some kind of styling product, is so soft, so fluffy. Hubert feels ecstatic and relaxed, both like he’s falling and flying. He wants to come, but he’s in no hurry. He is content to float.

He is content.

* * *

After item 6, “a hot bath on a cold day,” Ferdinand mentally tacks on: _ this _ . Even as he sucks Hubert down too greedily and hits a spot in his throat that makes him tear up and gag. The hand in his hair urges him to ease off, fingertips massaging his scalp in strokes just shy of soothing. Ferdinand has looked away so often tonight, embarrassed, letting his mind run wild, and thrilling in the shame and fantasy of it all. Now he blinks the tears out of his eyes as quickly as he can, eager to keep looking.

Hubert is heavy on his tongue, tasting of skin and sweat and bitterness. Ferdinand had not expected him to be quite so big, but he does the best he can, reveling under Hubert’s heated gaze. Hubert’s face… it is like earlier in the courtyard in its unabashed humanity, but there is something else there, something in the weight of Hubert’s hand on Ferdinand’s head, something in the way Hubert props himself up on his free elbow, the part of Hubert’s lips. Ferdinand flicks his tongue experimentally and Hubert sucks in a breath. _ He is so open _, Ferdinand’s mind supplies, relaxing his jaw and taking Hubert as deep as he can without his vision blurring. 

A stutter of breath, a twitch of lean abdominal muscle, and then Ferdinand does not care about gagging, does not care about tears. He takes Hubert to the root and bobs his head, throat making a dreadful sound as his entire head seems to ooze liquid. Tears run down his face and an impossible amount of drool seems to appear under his tongue. Both supplies are a steady stream, and Ferdinand’s face is quickly soaked. It is unseemly, but it makes Hubert arch his back just so. And Ferdinand blinks the tears out of his eyes to get a glimpse of pale skin stretching over a delicate ribcage. “The plan worked after all,” he says giddily to himself, but his lips are numb from the stretch, saliva drips down his chin, and there’s still a cockhead obstructing his tongue, so it sounds more like “fwoof flan blllph phla phla hlal.”

It does not matter. Hubert does not ask. Ferdinand’s heart pounds in his chest, a delicious spark of adrenaline and his never completely softened cock fattening back up jolting his body into action. Drool spills from the part of his lips as he pulls off, and Hubert’s cock, flushed dark, glistens with it. It is soaked with it. Ferdinand has never done this before, is pretty sure Hubert has not either. Still, he reasons, kissing back up Hubert’s stomach, straddling him, looking down into one, no… two green eyes, heavy lidded and soft, black hair slicked back with sweat, cheeks painted pink with excitement, he is Ferdinand von Aegir, and if there is anything he knows, it is how to ride.

Ferdinand expects pain but finds none. Instead, his body stretches deliciously around Hubert as he eases himself down. It is wonderfully full feeling, dizzying and luxurious. Hubert’s little mouth is open, his hands moving to Ferdinand’s hips and he starts to thrust upwards. He is flushed so pink, pale skin painted with it and… Ferdinand could never imagine him looking cute, but he does look cute like this. Ferdinand tries a few angles, tries a few rhythms, shifts his weight around until he is putting a hand behind himself, leaning back and rolling his hips down, crying out softly in time with his movements. Hubert is panting for breath, looking up at Ferdinand with an expression that makes him feel powerful. It is good. Ferdinand could almost laugh with how good it is.

“Do I feel good, Hubert?” He teases, the sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades. “Does it feel good inside this silly boy?” He looks down into Hubert’s face, and the man beneath him is completely overwhelmed, eyes shut tight, biting his lip. Ferdinand moves harder, faster, losing himself in it, floating on a cloud without fear because he is tethered to the earth by the fat cock inside him.

“I have always wanted you,” Ferdinand gasps, high and giddy and invincible. He is blissfully unafraid. He is soaring. 

“Wha-” Hubert starts to ask, eyes trying to open.

“You were perfect, so frightening. Like you knew. Like you reached inside of me and pulled out everything I never could have asked for and gave it to me anyways.” Ferdinand babbles, pleasure sparking and fizzing through his whole body.

“Ferdinand, I-” Hubert sounds puzzled. If Ferdinand did not know better, he would think he was confused. Before he can continue, Ferdinand is running his hand up Hubert’s chest, making him gasp, making him give in.

“All this time. Finally. You gave in. You gave it to me. Everything,” Ferdinand continues, breathless and grateful. “I know we fight, I know we argue, I know we disagree. But Hubert, we will be so good together. Look how well we fit. Feel how well you fit inside me. Do you feel it?”

Hubert nods, breathing hard, twitching inside Ferdinand, veins in his neck popping with effort.

“Is this not better than bickering?” Ferdinand does not know exactly what he is saying, just that connections in his mind are being made faster than he can process them. “Why snipe at each other in public when we can do this instead?” And then he sees it, like a vision from the Goddess. “We can be so good, so upright, we will be a perfectly balanced pair, supporting the Emperor when she takes the throne. We will serve her so well. And then we can have this. You can lock me in a dungeon when the day is over, you can be so deliciously cruel to me, and I can fight you then. I can fight you and want you and take you and overtake you. Hubert,” Ferdinand whines, so far gone, wrapping one of his hands around himself as he rides and rides and rides. “Hubert we can do this forever, being so good, getting along so well, working together where everyone can see, will that not be funny? To be sweet and diplomatic by day, compromising for the good of the Empire, to combine our wisdom to give the Emperor the most balanced advice, and then when no one is looking you can put a dagger to my throat and fuck me in a stairwell.”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert groans, sounding surprised, sounding impressed, hands gripping his hips so tight.

Ferdinand laughs, but the laugh is really more of an “ah ah ah” than a “ha ha ha.” He feels close to coming again, dripping sweat, mouth dry and thirsty, the words just falling out of his mouth as he chases release. “Taint me. Consume me. F-fucking ruin me.” And then Hubert gasps, hips pumping to meet Ferdinand’s, filling him with heat, marking him. He hurriedly wraps his hand around Ferdinand’s, guiding him until Ferdinand too is coming across Hubert’s stomach.

Even as their sweat and come cool in the winter night, Ferdinand feels warm.

* * *

Hubert lies awake, two muscular arms wrapped tightly around his waist and a pointy chin digging into his shoulder, the even breath of sleep puffing at his neck, and he tries to make sense of everything. 

He hadn’t been _entirely_ wrong. Ferdinand _does_ in fact give away just about anything in the throes of passion. Hubert had been right on point with that. But Ferdinand is probably not a traitor. Traitors don’t usually incorporate their loyalty to the Empire into their sexual fantasies. He decides to trust Ferdinand, tentatively. And to revisit recruiting him into their coup. He’ll have to talk to Lady Edelgard about it in the morning.

Hubert pictures the debrief, imagines her expression when he explains that he had been somewhat mistaken about Ferdinand’s intentions. He’s under no delusions about how that will go. Hubert is firmly against feeling embarrassed, but his face feels hot thinking about it. He sighs. At the very least it will be good to see her smile.

Mentally, Hubert starts it over from the beginning once more, determined to figure it out before the sun comes up. Ferdinand mutters something in his sleep. Hm. Maybe he'll say something useful.

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of the longest things I've ever written and everyone has been so lovely about it and I'm sorry it took me so long to finish. genuinely one of the nicest experiences I've ever had creating a fanwork. you all reignited my love of writing silly little pornos. thank you thank you thank you.
> 
> big thanks especially to Froggy who not only has encouraged me and been a wonderful supporter and Ferdibert genius, but also donated to bail relief funds to encourage me to finish this fic.
> 
> not doing much FE3H anymore, but feel free to follow me on twitter anyways: [@yilinghamburglr](https://twitter.com/yilinghamburglr)


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